Command
by Transwarp
Summary: War breaks out with the Romulan Empire, and T'Pol assumes command of a Starfleet frigate. Third in a series: 'Commissioning', 'Liaison', then 'Command'. 'Convicted' to follow soon.
1. Chapter 1

**Command**

**Author:** Transwarp

**Rating:** T (PG-13)

**Genre:** Action/Drama

**Disclaimer:** Paramount owns Star Trek names, and related intellectual property.

**Summary:** War breaks out with the Romulan Empire, and T'Pol assumes command of a Starfleet frigate. This is the third story in a series (order of stories: **'Commissioning'**, then **'Liaison'**, then **'Command'**).

**Note 1:** T'Pol's dance lessons were inspired by HopefulR's **'Childhood is the Kingdom Where Nobody Dies'** and her **'Reconnecting'** series. Both are excellent, and come HIGHLY recommended.

**Note 2:** T'Pol's Italian lessons were inspired by Asso's delightful **Honeymoon** series, in which Trip and T'Pol take a much deserved honeymoon to Italy.

**Note 3:** The concept of Vulcan clans is lifted directly from Bluenblack's **'The Road Once Traveled'** series. [**'For Want of A Nail'**, **'In the Cold of the Night'**, **'Father to the Man'**, and **'Purgatory'**] In fact, they are a must-read if you want to know what life on Vulcan is like. Bluenblack makes Vulcan a real place, populated with real people. I shamelessly stole T'Pol's clan name from him, but I had no choice--after all, it's _real_.

**Note 4:** It is firmly established in canon (going all the way back to Trek Original Series) that humans were unaware of Romulan physical appearance until Kirk's encounter with a Romulan warship. [TOS episode 'Balance of Terror'] To me, this is one of the more idiotic instances of canon in the Trek universe. I find it highly unlikely that in the 110 years between the first Romulan war and the episode 'Balance of Terror', humans would not have been able to determine such a basic piece of information as the physical appearance of the Romulans, an aggressive race that had attacked them once. However, it IS canon, and canon from TOS, no less, so who am I to dispute it? I will jump through the requisite hoops to avoid violating this particular tenant.

**Note 5:** Despite the fact that the Romulans had developed cloaked mines and ships [ENT episode 'Minefield'], I am postulating that the technology at that time was still highly experimental, and not suitable for operational use on warships. This seems to fit with canon, as Kirk was surprised by the technology a hundred years later [TOS episode 'Balance of Terror'], as if it had never (or rarely) been seen.

**Note 6:** Hoshi Sato and Travis Mayweather are now Lieutenants. Malcolm Reed is now a Lieutenant Commander.

**PROLOGUE  
**Romulus, 16 March 2156

One by one, the ships of Battle Squadron One pulled away from the berths of their orbital base. The heavy cruisers Decivvus and _Karvath_, the light cruisers _Trallix_, _B'Tavar_, and _Valtanus_, and twelve escort-class warbirds broke orbit, formed up, and entered warp together. At the same time, but from other orbital bases around Romulus, three more battle squadrons also slipped into warp.

All four squadrons departed at the same time for separate destinations. Battle Squadron One, by virtue of having the nearest objective, would receive the honor and glory of delivering the first blow to the Praetor's enemies.

Squadron One's objective: Attack and destroy the human colony on a world named 'Pearl Haven'. The irony of that name was completely lost on the Romulans who manned the attacking ships.

**ONE  
**_Enterprise,_ 26 March 2156

Trip stared at his terminal and sighed. Only two more efficiency reports to go. Then review and approve the engineering logs. Then approve the maintenance schedules. Then do next week's duty roster. Then next month's training schedules. Then he could finally do some **real** work, and help realign the inertial dampers--assuming there would be anything left to realign by the time he was done with all the paperwork.

_They'll be finished,_ he thought, morosely. _Hess is ramrodding that job, and she's pretty sharp. I'm gonna miss all the fun._ The title of Chief Engineer came with many advantages, but this time of the month wasn't one of them.

Trip's contemplation was interrupted by the comm panel: "Phlox to Commander Tucker."

He stabbed the reply button. "Tucker here."

"Commander, are you able to join me and Commander T'Pol in sickbay?"

Trip frowned. "Is everything okay, Doc?"

"Everything is fine," Phlox replied. "I just have some information you'll want to hear."

"On my way," Trip said. He would grab at any excuse to postpone the drudgery of routine reports. _Maybe the paperwork elves will come while I'm gone._

#####

Trip walked into sickbay to find Phlox and T'Pol conversing in hushed tones at his desk. T'Pol gave Trip a guarded look as he approached. A casual observer would not have noticed--her expression was the epitome of Vulcan reserve--but where T'Pol was concerned, Trip was hardly a casual observer. He could tell she was apprehensive, and it troubled him. _She's nervous about something._

Phlox, on the other hand, exhibited his normal exuberance. "Have a seat, Commander," he said, smiling broadly.

Trip was somewhat reassured by his cheerful demeanor, but still concerned. He took the indicated chair next to T'Pol. *What is it, darling?* he sent across their mental bond, *Why so tense?*

*Phlox will explain, my love. Just listen,* T'Pol sent back. Through the bond, Trip felt her apprehension, but there was also an undercurrent of excitement. _Whatever it is, it must be pretty significant for T'Pol to be this flustered._

T'Pol turned back to Phlox, "Go ahead, Doctor. Tell my husband what you've found."

Phlox nodded, getting straight to the point. "I have been researching methods of combining the Vulcan and Human genomes, and I believe I have succeeded. If the two of you so desire, you can have a child that is genetically yours."

Trip was stunned by Phlox's pronouncement. "I-- I didn't even know you were working on it," he stammered.

"It was at my request," T'Pol interjected, "I asked him to undertake the task after we were married."

Trip stared at T'Pol, and she dropped her eyes to her hands, which were clasped together in her lap. Now he understood the source of her excitement--and her apprehension. She was excited by the prospect of a child, but apprehensive that he would not share her excitement. _I want a child, too,_ Trip thought, _just not sure I want one right away._

T'Pol lifted her head to give Trip a solemn gaze. *Have I displeased you, my husband?*

*No darling. Surprised, yes. Displeased? No.* He took her hands from her lap and clasped them between his. *You have never displeased me.*

Phlox watched the two Commanders during their silent exchange. "I should probably leave you to discuss this in private," he said, rising from his desk. They glanced at him as he retreated to a corner of sickbay, then turned back to each other.

*When would you have this child?.. Our child?* Trip asked. T'Pol was pleased that he used the word 'our'.

*Immediately.*

*And what of our careers?*

*I would resign my commission and raise our child. You would continue your career, of course.*

*This is... very sudden. Why didn't you tell me?*

T'Pol dropped her eyes to her hands again. *I am sorry, k'diwa. I was uncertain whether you would desire a child right now.*

*I guess I'm uncertain of that, too,* Trip sent. He felt a twinge of sorrow from T'Pol at his words, and he hastily backtracked. *Hold on, now, darling, I didn't say no; I just said I'm not certain. Give me a little time to consider the idea; five minutes ago, I didn't even know this was a possibility!*

T'Pol looked up, and Trip's heart melted at the hope he saw glimmering in her eyes. _My God, she's beautiful,_ he thought. He knew in that instant--with absolute certainty and total clarity--that there was nothing he wanted more than to have a child with her. As soon as possible.

Through the bond, she was aware of his decision as soon as he had made it. "Thank you, my love," she murmured, squeezing his hands.

Trip nodded mutely, throat constricting with emotion.

They continued to gaze at each other for several moments. Trip swallowed and spoke, his voice huskier than he intended. "So, what happens next?"

"We must discuss the details with Doctor Phlox," T'Pol said, softly. "There are some unresolved issues."

_That doesn't sound good._ "Unresolved issues? Like what?"

*Patience, my love. Phlox will explain.* "Doctor, we are ready for you," T'Pol called.

Phlox rejoined the couple, and gave them a questioning look.

"We have decided to proceed," T'Pol said. Phlox glanced at Trip, who nodded his assent.

"Very well," Phlox said, beaming his approval. "The first step is to--"

"Just a sec, Doc," Trip interrupted. "T'Pol mentioned something about unresolved issues. What issues?"

"Issues, yes," Phlox said. "Really only one issue. T'Pol has not yet gone through her first pon farr."

"Pon farr? Why is that an issue?" Trip asked.

"A healthy Vulcan female will have her first pon farr within a year of mating," Phlox said, in his best clinical manner. Trip could sense T'Pol's uneasiness with the topic under discussion, though her face gave nothing away. As usual.

"So what's the problem? T'Pol and I have only been married a year. Thirteen months, actually. Are you saying we should expect a...a pon farr soon?" Although he would never admit it to T'Pol, part of him actually _wanted_ her to go through pon farr, just so he could see what all the hype was about. The other part of him--the part that had a healthy respect for T'Pol's physical strength and stamina--regarded the thought of a wild and unrestrained T'Pol with a great deal of trepidation.

"It's been a year since your wedding ceremony, but that is irrelevant," Phlox pointed out. "In Vulcan females, the pon farr cycle is not triggered by a ceremony, but by the formation of a psychic mating bond. As I understand it, your mating bond formed over two years ago. That means T'Pol is overdue by at least a year."

"Is this... is this a show stopper? I mean, could it keep us from having a child?"

"I don't believe so. Under normal conditions, a Vulcan female will not ovulate prior to her first pon farr. It is the pon farr that stimulates the release of the necessary hormones that allow ovulation to occur, and it is the mating bond that triggers the pon farr. A rather nice evolutionary touch, don't you think? It prevents the waste of ovums prior to the female actually mating."

Trip ignored Phlox's commentary on the efficiency of Vulcan reproduction, and went straight to the point: "So, T'Pol can't ovulate because she hasn't gone through pon farr?"

"Therein lies the mystery," Phlox said. "Commander T'Pol _is_ ovulating, exactly as if she has gone through pon farr. But she hasn't. At least she says she hasn't, and I suspect she would know."

"You are correct, Doctor," T'Pol said, dryly, "I would certainly know."

"Maybe it was that--that pon farr virus she caught a few years ago," Trip suggested.

Phlox shook his head. "I can rule that out. There were no changes to her body chemistry after the infection was cleared up. I know; I was very thorough in my checks.

Trip did not try to hide his confusion. "So can she--uh, we-- have a baby or not?"

"It appears you can," Phlox said, smiling.

Now it was T'Pol looking confused. "Doctor, this morning you were undecided. What has changed?"

"As you know, I accessed the Vulcan medical library but could not find a case similar to yours. There were several references to delayed pon farr, but I could rule out each one. In every case, there were biological or environmental factors that are not in play here. I'd hit a brick wall, so I expanded my search, and I came across references to T'Pol's condition that _weren't_ in any medical library, because they weren't considered to be abnormal." He set a PADD on the desk in front of T'Pol. "This is what I found."

She picked it up and started reading, then she looked up, perplexed. "Doctor, these are ancient texts, almost two thousand years old. I fail to see their relevance."

"They are from before the Awakening, before Vulcans embraced logic and emotional control." Phlox had the smug look he got when he was especially pleased with himself. "I understand that bonds as strong as yours were more common back then."

Trip watched as comprehension dawned in T'Pol's eyes. "Is somebody going to enlighten me?" he finally growled.

"Yes, Commander," Phlox said. "My search of pre-Awakening documents turned up numerous references to couples who never entered pon farr. The common factor in every case was an exceptionally strong mating bond. It would seem your bond with T'Pol falls into that category."

"You mean T'Pol won't go through pon farr? Ever? Because of... of _me?_" It was Trip's turn to get a smug look. "Well, how about that?" he sniggered. "It's gotta take a real stud to knock the pon farr out of a Vulcan. Nothing like those wimpy Vulcan males you find around nowadays."

*I suppose you are going to be quite insufferable for the foreseeable future,* T'Pol sent.

*Oh darlin', you have NO idea.* Trip replied, a huge grin plastered across his face. *Still, which would you choose: an insufferable husband, or pon farr every seven years?*

*I choose you, my insufferable husband.* Through the bond, Trip picked up on her amusement, but he also felt a quiet pride--her pride in him, and her pride in the strength of their relationship.

The discussion turned to the technical issues surrounding the procedure and Trip, having nothing to contribute, tuned them out. He leaned back in his chair, content to watch his wife as she poured over a PADD of arcane genetic details. Two tiny creases formed between her eyebrows, and Trip had to smile. _She's adorable when she's concentrating._

His thought must have leaked across to T'Pol, because she looked up from her PADD and met his gaze. *Are there ANY actions I am capable of that you would not categorize as 'adorable'?* she sent, sternly.

Trip's smile widened to a full grin. *You're adorable when you ask questions.*

#####

The paperwork elves had not come, and Trip was late returning to their quarters. It had taken him longer than normal to complete his work, since every five minutes or so he caught himself staring off into space and grinning like an idiot. _Hess probably thinks I've been drinking,_ Trip thought, as he thumbed the door open.

T'Pol was already inside, as he knew she would be. She looked up from the data terminal as Trip entered the room.

"Hey, darling. Or should that be, hey, mom?" Trip asked, a playful smile on his lips.

"That greeting is at least ten months premature," T'Pol noted, primly.

Trip came up behind her and massaged her shoulders as he gazed at the screen. "Whatcha working on?"

T'Pol's eyes slitted with pleasure as Trip kneaded her back. "I am applying an adaptive algorithm to filter out sensor artifacts from the pulsar readings we took yesterday. I should have finished it earlier, but... but I am having difficulty concentrating," she admitted.

Trip snorted, "Yeah. Me, too."

T'Pol pushed away from the desk and stood. "I have been considering names for our child."

"And?.." Trip prompted.

"I do not wish to name our daughter Elizabeth. Or our son Lorian." She moved to the bookshelf and gazed unseeing at the knick-knacks and photographs on display, hands clasped behind her back.

"I agree," Trip said, quietly. "Those names are taken." His thoughts turned to their cloned daughter Elizabeth, who they had known for such a short time, but whose passing had left such a big hole in their hearts. And Lorian, their son from an alternate time line, whose very existence had challenged their assumptions about their own relationship.

"If we have a boy, I would name him Jonathan."

Trip nodded. "It's a good name. The Captain will be honored."

"That is my intention," T'Pol said.

He came up behind her and clasped his arms around her waist. "And if we have a girl?"

"I would name her Dorothy."

"Dorothy?" Trip's brow wrinkled as he tried to place the significance of the name.

"Yes. After the human child in _The Wizard of Oz._"

"Oh, _that_ Dorothy. Why her?"

T'Pol turned in Trip's arms until they were facing each other. "She exemplifies all that I find admirable in your species."

"A little girl in a.. a _movie?_ That's how you see us?

"I suppose you would prefer one of your movie action heroes?" T'Pol asked, caustically.

"Well, no, not that, either. But... _Dorothy?_

"Yes, Dorothy. She is small and unassuming, but possesses great strength of character. She is kind and compassionate to everyone she meets. She is always optimistic. She shows persistence and determination when confronted with difficulty, letting no obstacle deter her from her chosen path. She has the strength of her convictions and tries always to do the right thing. She is unfailingly loyal to her friends, and displays great courage in the face of adversity. These are all traits I have observed in your people."

"Yeah, well, there are a lot of less admirable traits you could add to that list, if you were being completely honest," Trip said.

"It is true that your species' adherence to these traits can be somewhat uneven. Still, they are the ideals you strive for." T'Pol reached up and placed her hand on Trip's chest, over his heart. "It is as I've heard you say on occasion: Your hearts are in the right place."

"I guess when you put it like that, I have to agree with you. Dorothy is a good name for our daughter," Trip said. Then his voice dropped to a whisper. "Our daughter. _Our_ daughter. God, how I love the sound of that!"

T'Pol's eyes flicked to Trip's, then she lay her head against his chest. "As do I," she murmured. They held each other for a timeless moment.

Eventually Trip spoke, breaking the spell. "When're we telling Jon?"

"We are eating in the Captain's mess tonight. We shall tell him then."

Trip chuckled. "Jon's gonna have a cow when he finds out he's losing his First Officer."

T'Pol raised an eyebrow. "Have a cow?"

Trip's explanation was interrupted by an announcement over the shipboard address system: _"All officers report to the ready room. All officers to the ready room."_

Trip threw T'Pol a quizzical look.

"I am unaware of the reason for this meeting," she said, in answer to his unspoken question.

"Then I guess we'd better get up there and find out what's going on." Trip said. T'Pol declined to comment on the obviousness of his remark.

**Continued in Chapter 2**


	2. Chapter 2

**Command**

**Author:** Transwarp

**Rating:** T (PG-13)

**Genre:** Action/Drama

**Disclaimer:** Paramount owns Star Trek names, and related intellectual property.

**Summary:** War breaks out with the Romulan Empire, and T'Pol assumes command of a Starfleet frigate. This is the third story in a series (order of stories: **'Commissioning'**, then **'Liaison'**, then **'Command'**).

**TWO  
**_Enterprise,_ 26 March 2156

Captain Archer was in the ready room when T'Pol and Trip arrived. He stood with his back to the room, looking out the window at the stellar warp trails crawling from left to right. He looked around as Trip and T'Pol approached, and they were struck by the grim expression on his face.

"What's going on, Jon?" Trip asked, quietly.

Archer just shook his head, then looked at T'Pol. "Let me know when everyone's here."

"Aye, sir," T'Pol replied. Archer turned back to the window.

As the _Enterprise's_ complement of officers--some twenty-three in all--trickled into the ready room, T'Pol checked them off against a mental roster in her head. After the last one arrived, she addressed the buzzing room: "At Ease!"

The room fell silent. "All officers are present, Captain." T'Pol said.

"Thank you, Commander." Archer glanced briefly at a PADD in his hand, then back up at the room. "Six hours ago, forces of the Romulan Star Empire attacked the Earth colony on Pearl Haven without warning."

A collective gasp went through the room. Archer waited a moment before continuing. "Ten civilian freighters and one Starfleet courier vessel were in orbit at the time of the attack. All are reported destroyed. We have lost contact with the settlements on the planet, but last reports from the surface indicated massive casualties and large-scale destruction resulting from orbital bombardment.

"Oh my God," Trip whispered, "oh my God..." His eyes, full of shock and dismay, turned to T'Pol. The same thought flashed through both their minds at the same instant: _There would be no baby now._

Archer continued his grim monologue. "United Earth military forces have been placed on full alert. All leaves and liberties are canceled, effective immediately. All separation actions are placed on hold, and enlistments have been extended for the duration of the emergency. The President is initiating a full mobilization of reserve forces. An emergency session of Parliament has declared a state of war between United Earth and the Romulan Star Empire.

The Captain's pronouncement was met by a stunned silence.

"What are your orders, Captain?" T'Pol asked, quietly.

"Set a course for Earth at maximum warp. I've posted the full report from Starfleet in each department's inbox; department heads will inform their departments of the situation. T'Pol, I want a list of every crewman who has family on Pearl Haven as soon as we're done here. Don't let them learn of the danger to their families from a general announcement. I want them told first, by their division officers."

"Crewman Foster in Ops, and Petty Officer Singh in Supply," T'Pol replied. "They are the only ones."

Archer nodded. "Very well. Commander Reed; Foster is yours. Ensign Odierno, please see that Singh is informed immediately.

"Aye, sir."

"Dismissed." Archer turned and stared out the window while the room emptied.

Trip gave Archer a troubled look. Even through the crushing disappointment of having to put their plans for a family on indefinite hold, he was still concerned for his friend. He had not seen Jon this distant since their time in the Expanse.

T'Pol, using her official 'First Officer' voice, called him back to the present. "Commander, _Enterprise_ will be proceeding at maximum warp for the next five days. If there are any maintenance procedures required to sustain that speed for that long, I need to know within the hour."

"Yes ma'am," Trip acknowledged. "I'm on it." He headed for engineering.

*Trip,* T'Pol sent, as he left the room, *Tonight we will speak of this. Right now, Jonathan needs his First Officer. And his Chief Engineer.*

*Got it,* Trip replied. In typical Vulcan fashion, T'Pol was suppressing all the dismay and distress she surely felt over their disrupted plans, to be dealt with at a later time. She would be the efficient, logical, emotionless Vulcan officer until the door to their quarters closed behind them tonight. Then, she would need his help. _And I will need hers..._

#####

Before the evening was over, the news only got worse. _Enterprise_ learned that three other Earth colonies had been attacked by Romulan forces. Each time, Archer insisted that crew members with families on the attacked colony be notified before a general announcement was made to the crew. As it turned out, four crewmen in Electrical Division had family on Deneva Prime, one of the attacked colonies. Trip tasked the Chief Electrician with notifying two of them, Trip himself would do the third, and he surprised T'Pol by asking her to notify the fourth, Crewman Matloff.

"Are you sure, Trip?" T'Pol asked. "As a Vulcan, I may not be the best choice to break such news to a human."

Trip's grim expression turned positively bitter, "Then you'd better learn how, darling, 'cause this is shaping up to be a long war."

T'Pol could not argue with his logic.

She found a vacant conference room and sent for Crewman Matloff, who arrived promptly. "Crewman Second Class Matloff reporting as ordered, ma'am."

T'Pol gestured to a place at the conference table, "Please have a seat." He took the indicated seat.

T'Pol folded her hands onto the table in front of her, and looked Matloff in the eye. "Crewman, I have called you here to inform you--"

"Deneva Prime has been attacked, hasn't it," he interrupted. It was more of a statement than a question.

"Yes," T'Pol answered. "I am sorry. I understand your parents live there."

"And my baby sister." Matloff swallowed heavily. "Is there any word of survivors?"

"No. It is the same as the other colonies. A Romulan force of approximately twenty warships attacked without warning, destroying everything in orbit and bombarding the settlements from space. We have lost communications with any survivors."

"If there are any." Matloff said.

"There are likely to be many survivors," T'Pol replied. "After the attack on Pearl Haven, all Earth colonies were notified of the situation and told to prepare plans to evacuate inhabited areas."

"So, what happens next?" Matloff asked. His voice was calm, but there was anger in his eyes. Anger, and resolve. "When do we strike back at the bastards?"

_I have seen that look in humans before, _T'Pol thought,_ when the Xindi attacked Earth. I do not believe the Romulans fully realize what they have unleashed._ "Starfleet is consolidating forces around Earth. At that point, we will assess the situation and make appropriate plans. I am sure that liberating the survivors on the attacked colonies will be a high priority. After that, I anticipate we will find some way to take the war to the Romulans."

"Oh, I anticipate that, too," Matloff said. His lips curled into a smile, and T'Pol was intrigued by how he could make a facial expression that was normally associated with laughter and friendship appear so... menacing.

#####

It was well into the mid-watch before T'Pol returned to her quarters. Trip had left engineering thirty minutes prior, and was waiting inside for her.

"Well, can you take your 'First Officer' hat off now?" Trip asked, as she entered the room.

"I am off-duty until morning muster, unless another emergency arises."

"Same for me." Trip rose and met her by the door. "How are you holding up?" he asked, taking her hands in his. "And don't say, 'I am fine.' I know better."

"Trip. I _am_ fine."

"Just this afternoon in sickbay, you were a bundle of nerves, and that was before war broke out with the Romulans--a war that will probably last for years. On top of that, our plan to start a family has been shot full of holes. And you say you're _fine?_ How can that be?"

"This afternoon in sickbay, I was a--how did you say it?--a 'bundle of nerves', because I wasn't sure you desired a family. You have since assured me that you do. This war will not prevent us from having children; it will only delay us. In the meantime, no matter what happens, I will be with you. That is enough."

Trip reached across the bond, and was surprised to find her statement verified. She was indeed as calm and collected as a... as a Vulcan.

The same was not true for Trip.

"You are unsettled," T'Pol observed.

"Um, yes. Putting it mildly. And I'm tired. And disappointed. And... and scared. Scared that something might happen to you. That you might not--_we_ might not--survive the war."

"Do not be afraid, my love. Not for something over which we have no control."

"My head knows you're right, T'Pol. But my heart..."

"Your heart is troubled," T'Pol said. She led him to the bed, and pulled him down beside her. "Hold me," she murmured.

With a sigh, Trip collected her into his arms.

*Does that not help?* she asked.

*You know it does.*

*Yes, I know. Just rest now, my love. Just rest...*

They drifted off to sleep in each others arms.

**Continued in Chapter 3**


	3. Chapter 3

**Command**

**Author:** Transwarp

**Rating:** T (PG-13)

**Genre:** Action/Drama

**Disclaimer:** Paramount owns Star Trek names, and related intellectual property.

**Summary:** War breaks out with the Romulan Empire, and T'Pol assumes command of a Starfleet frigate. This is the third story in a series (order of stories: **'Commissioning'**, then **'Liaison'**, then **'Command'**).

**THREE  
**_Enterprise,_ 27 March 2156

**Naraar leered at T'Pol, a soldering iron smoldering in one hand. His other hand grasped her by the hair, keeping her head from jerking away. In vain, she struggled against the cuffs holding her in the chair, and cried out in pain as he drew a line of scorched flesh across her cheek.**

T'Pol gasped and sat upright in bed. _I was dreaming._ she thought, her heart pounding.

**T'Pol cried out again, as the iron seared a second line across her face. Her cries increased in intensity as the soldering iron followed the line of her jaw to the other side of her face.**

_Not MY dream,_ she realized, _Trip's._ He was reliving the horror of her interrogation at the hands of Naraar and the Romulan, Kassus. Trip had been present in her mind throughout the entire ordeal, but had been powerless to prevent it. He had, she recalled, been more terrified than at any other time in his life. _Terrified for me; he was personally safe, back on __**Enterprise.**_

T'Pol slipped into his mind, hoping to sooth his troubled sleep, but the dream-scape had already changed:

**Trip leaned against the cafeteria wall at the Bayshore Elementary School sock hop, and tried not to appear too obvious as he watched Melissa Lyles. He loved the way she flicked her long, golden hair when it got in her eyes. He loved the way her nose crinkled as she laughed with her friends. He loved the way she walked, and the way ****her sweater clung to her form. She was a goddess, and tonight he would dance with her. He had practiced the two-step for weeks. He was ready--if he could find the courage to ask her, that is. He had already made four abortive attempts, and the night was winding down. It was now or never.**

T'Pol suppressed a twinge of jealousy at dream-Trip's infatuation with the girl Melissa. The dream was obviously fraught with meaning for Trip, as she could feel the powerful emotions it brought out in him: fear of rejection, insecurity, and--mostly--regret. Still, it was better than the nightmare of her interrogation, so she made no move to interrupt.

**The last song played out, and Trip slumped in defeat. Because of his cowardice, he had missed the opportunity. Dejected, he turned for the door, but something in his subconscious rebelled. No! Not this time. With the illogic of dreams, the music had started playing again, and Trip, exhilarated, was suddenly transported to the dance floor, twirling his partner, and--**

T'Pol caught her breath at the image in Trip's mind. His partner on the dance floor was not the blond-haired girl Melissa. It was her. T'Pol.

#####

There was some good news waiting for them in the morning. The Andorians and Tellarites had both pledged their full support to United Earth's war effort.

There was also some bad news. Vulcan had announced it would provide logistical support to Earth, but Vulcan military units would not be permitted to actively engage Romulan forces in combat.

The crew's reaction to Vulcan's lukewarm support of Earth ranged from disbelief to anger. This included Commander T'Pol, who came down firmly on the 'anger' side of the spectrum. _Once again, my people have abandoned their allies in time of need,_ she thought, bitterly. _Eventually Vulcan will find itself alone, isolated and friendless. I do not see the logic of this decision._

Two hours later, Lieutenant Sato notified T'Pol that she had a priority call from Vulcan on a secure sub-space channel. "It's from Minister T'Pau," Hoshi volunteered.

T'Pol lifted an eyebrow. "Thank you, Lieutenant. I will take it in my office."

She made her way to the small First Officer's office on B-Deck, and brought the comm link up on her data terminal. After entering her encryption key, the Starfleet emblem on the screen resolved into the image of Minister T'Pau.

"Commander T'Pol," she said, "it is agreeable to see you. Are you alone?"

"Yes, Minister. You may speak freely."

"I am calling to ask you to resign from Starfleet and return to Vulcan. We will make it worthwhile for you to do so. I can offer you your choice of postings: Captain of the Science Vessel Ti'Voka, Director of the Science Council's Astrophysics Department, or Dean of Astrophysics at the Vulcan Science Academy.

T'Pol raised an eyebrow. "It is unprecedented for someone my age to be offered such prestigious positions."

"Yes it is. However, based on your record, the High Council believes you are more than capable of filling any of these positions. Based on _my_ experience, I have no doubt of your competence."

"Yet I am not the most qualified for any of these postings," T'Pol pointed out.

"That is correct," T'Pau conceded. "We felt such an offer was the only way we could get you to voluntarily resign from Starfleet."

"I see. You have miscalculated, then. I have no intention of resigning, with or without your bribes."

"I suspected that would be your response," T'Pau said. "If you will not resign for your own benefit, perhaps you would do so for the benefit of Vulcan?"

"I would consider it."

"Then consider this: It would be best if no Vulcans were involved in the conflict with Romulus. You would be doing your people a service by resigning."

"That is not logical," T'Pol stated. "The Romulans are destabilizing this entire sector, of which Vulcan is a part. Are not Vulcan interests best served by stopping the Romulans?

"There are complications involving the Romulans that you are unaware of."

"Then enlighten me." T'Pol challenged. She had long suspected that the Vulcan High Command--and now, the High Council--had information about the Romulans that they were not sharing with their allies. She couldn't imagine what that information was, only that it was sufficiently explosive to cause normally logical Vulcans to take illogical positions.

T'Pau was silent for several seconds. "Before I can tell you, I will need some assurance that you will not inform the humans."

"I cannot provide such assurance. If your information can aid Starfleet's efforts against the Romulans, I will not withhold it from them."

"In that case, I cannot tell you," T'Pau said.

"In that case, I will not resign." T'Pol countered.

T'Pau could see her current approach was not working, so she tried a different tactic. "I believe your loyalty to Starfleet is due in part to your marriage to a human Starfleet officer. You should reconsider this relationship. You did your human no favors when you took him as your mate."

T'Pol raised an eyebrow, but held her peace. She was intrigued by T'Pau's gambit, and wondered where she was going with it.

T'Pau continued, "You could not possibly meet the needs of a member of such an emotional and illogical species. Eventually, he will leave you. Far better for you to leave him now, and let him get on with his life, with his own kind."

"I once shared that belief," T'Pol said, "and, to my shame, I used it as an excuse to distance myself from him. I was wrong. In reality, he asks so little of me--A touch, a look, a term of endearment--those are all he needs."

"Fascinating," T'Pau remarked. "So you can provide what he needs, or so you say. But what of you? How can this human provide what _you_ require? What every Vulcan requires? Peace, stability, meditation, logical reflection. Why would you desire a relationship where the benefits all flow in one direction--away from you?"

"I would not desire that, nor am I in such a relationship. On the contrary, I have never been more calm, more centered, or more at peace than I have since bonding with my human."

"You do appear more in control than when we last met in the Forge," T'Pau conceded. "You attribute that to your relationship with a human? It is difficult to believe."

"It is difficult for you to believe. It is quite easy for me."

"This human; does he follow the way of Surak?"

"No."

"Do _you_ follow the way of Surak?" T'Pau asked, pointedly.

"When it is logical to do so," T'Pol responded. Her matter-of-fact tone belied the volatile content of her words.

T'Pau could not comprehend T'Pol's answer. In her mind, it was a binary choice; yes or no, true or false. One did not--could not--follow two different paths. "If you follow the Vulcan way only some of the time, then you do not follow it at _any_ time."

"I have learned that the Vulcan way is not the only way. It is not even the best way. It is merely a different way. You could learn much from these humans, if you look beyond your preconceptions and prejudices."

T'Pau considered that, then discarded it. "The path of Surak saved our people. His logic has guided us well for eighteen hundred years. We would be foolish to abandon it."

"Not abandon. Augment."

"This is not the time to talk of such things," T'Pau said, after a brief pause. "It is obvious you will not be convinced to return to Vulcan."

"No. Not without a much better rationale than you have been able to provide me."

"I understand, and expected as much. I would do the same in your position. By standing beside your mate, you bring honor to all of Vulcan, whether your mate is worthy of you or not."

T'Pol's raised eyebrows indicated her surprise at T'Pau's admission. "In view of that, how can you support Vulcan's policy to deny military aid to Earth?"

"If it were my decision alone, Vulcan would fight. However, the High Council is split on the issue. I do not enjoy the same degree of autonomy that my predecessor V'Las had, nor do I desire such power."

"I am gratified to hear that. Perhaps in time, you can convince the council that Romulus must be opposed." T'Pol said.

"Perhaps," T'Pau replied. "I must end this call now. Pressing matters await me, as I suspect they do for you. Let us speak again when we have more time; I would learn more of what these humans have taught you."

"I look forward to that conversation, Minister."

"Give my regards to Captain Archer. And to your Commander Tucker, as well."

"I certainly will."

"Peace and long life, Commander."

"Unfortunately, Minister, the former is presently absent, and even the latter is now in doubt."

T'Pau's mouth twitched, ever so slightly. "Indeed." She reached off-screen with her hand, and the call was disconnected.

**Continued in Chapter 4**


	4. Chapter 4

**Command**

**Author:** Transwarp

**Rating:** T (PG-13)

**Genre:** Action/Drama

**Disclaimer:** Paramount owns Star Trek names, and related intellectual property.

**Summary:** War breaks out with the Romulan Empire, and T'Pol assumes command of a Starfleet frigate. This is the third story in a series (order of stories: **'Commissioning'**, then **'Liaison'**, then **'Command'**).

**Note:** T'Pol's dance lessons were inspired by HopefulR's **'Childhood is the Kingdom Where Nobody Dies'** and her **'Reconnecting'** series. Both are excellent, and come HIGHLY recommended.

**FOUR  
**_Enterprise,_ 29 March 2156

_Enterprise_ was still two days from Earth when Captain Archer called Commander T'Pol and Commander Tucker into his ready room. He nodded as they entered, but said nothing until they were seated.

Archer grimaced and rubbed at his eyes, causing Trip to shoot a quick glance at T'Pol, who mirrored his concern.

"Everything okay, Cap'n?" Trip asked, trying to sound upbeat.

"I've had better days," Archer grumbled. He slid a couple of PADDs across the table, one for each of them, "Those are specs for the USS _Chosin_. She's a _Dieppe_-class frigate.

Trip glanced at the PADD, and frowned. "I remember hearing about the _Dieppe_ class. Launched the first of 'em three years ago, while we were in the expanse. I know they built another three or four, but I don't recall a frigate named _Chosin_."

"Actually, they built twenty-four of them."

"Twenty-four?" Trip repeated, making no attempt to hide his disbelief. "Jon, I've got friends at the Bureau of Ships. I think I'd know if Starfleet had commissioned twenty-four of these."

"They _built_ twenty-four. They only _commissioned_ five."

Trip stared at Captain Archer, trying to make sense of his words.

Archer continued, "They also built twelve _Repulse_-class cruisers, but only commissioned three. And they built thirty-four _Mahan_-class corvettes. They didn't commission any of them."

"Why would Starfleet build ships, then not put them into service?" Trip asked.

T'Pol glanced up from her PADD. "The Romulans," she stated. "Starfleet was preparing for an eventual Romulan attack by building these ships."

Archer nodded. "Correct. The contingency planners at Starfleet knew it would be too late to start building up our fleet after the Romulans--or anyone else, for that matter-- attacked us. They procured funds to build the ships, then put them into mothballs for a rainy day. Of course, there is a problem with that approach."

"Yes," T'Pol said. "The crews."

"Correct again," Archer said. "Go to the head of the class."

Trip was starting to feel left out of the conversation. "Uh, the crews? What about the crews?"

"There aren't any," Archer said, with a sigh. "Starfleet has sixty-four battle-ready warships, but no crews. We're about four thousand people short."

"Three thousand eight hundred forty crew members would be required to man the quantity and type of ships you mentioned," T'Pol corrected.

Trip started to get an uneasy feeling. "Why exactly are you telling us this, Captain?"

"Starfleet needs crews for those ships, _fast_. They've decided that it's better to have three ships sixty-six percent manned than two ships at one-hundred percent. I'm losing a third of my crew," Archer said, "Including T'Pol and you."

"I presume we are going to this. . . _Chosin_?" T'Pol asked.

"Yes," Archer confirmed. "Congratulations on your first command."

"I am to be Captain?"

"Yes. If you accept the job," Archer said. He turned to Trip, "Of course, it would be a step down for you, going from Chief Engineer of an NX-class to a frigate."

"I go where T'Pol goes," Trip stated, firmly.

Archer nodded. "I made sure Starfleet understood that."

"Thank you, Captain," T'Pol said.

Archer shrugged. "Just because _I_ have to lose you both doesn't mean you have to lose each other." He tried very hard not to let his bitterness and disappointment show. He was not successful.

T'Pol looked from Archer to Trip. Trip nodded his assent at her thought, and she looked back at Archer. "Captain... Jonathan... I will stay, if you ask me to," she said, in a soft voice.

"I know," Archer replied, after a long pause. Then his face broke into a sardonic smile, "So, leaving the hard decisions to me, eh? Let's see, do I do the selfish thing, and keep my First Officer and Chief Engineer, who also happen to be my closest friends and advisors? Or do I do the right thing, and send them off to _Chosin_, where their considerable talents will be directed toward ending this war in the least possible time with the fewest casualties? What a conundrum."

T'Pol nodded her understanding. "I, too, would choose to remain, if I were to make the 'selfish' choice."

Archer allowed himself a few more moments of self-pity, then shook it off. "Your transfers are effective in five days," he said. His tone left no doubt that he was now speaking as the Captain. "That means you have five days to make sure your replacements know everything they need to know."

"Not a problem, sir," Trip said, smugly, "Kelby could take over right now."

"I'm sure he could," Archer said, "Unfortunately, he's not. Commander Kelby has orders to the cruiser _Invincible_."

"As the Chief Engineer?" Trip asked.

"Yes. Lieutenant Hess will be your replacement."

Trip nodded. "I can get her up to speed in five days, easy. She's already got the technical expertise; I just need to teach her the administrative side."

"Good." Archer looked at T"Pol, "Malcom will be my new First Officer."

"He will make a fine First Officer," T'Pol said, "once he realizes he must relinquish primary responsibility for Operations Department and ship's security."

Archer chuckled at T'Pol's spot-on assessment. "I'm sure he'll get it figured out, with your help." His smile faded, and he changed the subject, "I have a task, too. I have five days to get _Enterprise_ ready to take an Admiral and his staff on board. It seems _Enterprise_ will be the flagship of Second Fleet, under Admiral Chu."

"Second Fleet? Since when does Starfleet have fleets?" Trip asked.

"Since five days from now. Starfleet vessels are being organized into six fleets. Each NX-class starship will be the flagship for a fleet. _Enterprise_ is assigned to Second Fleet."

"That makes sense," Trip said. "The NX-class was designed for deep-space exploration. Our sensors and communication systems are much better than the typical warship."

"Yes," Archer agreed. "_Enterprise_ and her sister ships are perfect for the job. Admiral Chu will have a much better view of the tactical situation from _Enterprise_ than from any other ship in Starfleet."

"Captain," T'Pol interjected. "You said there were six fleets. There are only five NX-class vessels."

"The first five fleets will be our offensive arm, and will strike back at the Romulans. The Sixth Fleet will be based around Earth, and will be purely defensive. It will be composed of non warp-capable ships, or ships too old or slow for the other fleets."

"So, who is this Admiral Chu you're gonna be baby-sitting, Captain?" Trip asked.

"I'm told he was Chief of Staff at Starfleet Logistics Command"

Trip's mouth dropped open in shock. "You gotta be kidding me! _Logistics_ Command? What the hell does he know about space combat?"

"He's a Starfleet officer. He's had the same training you and I have had."

"Come on, sir; we both know that you have ten times the experience this Admiral Chu has. That job should be yours."

"It's okay Trip. I don't mind."

"I'll bet if we took this to Admiral Gardner, he could get them to reconsider. You could be an Admiral by the end of the week. Maybe sooner. I'll help you draft the memorandum--"

*Trip. Hush.* T'Pol sent across their bond. Trip abruptly stopped talking, and shot T'Pol a confused look. *Jonathan does not desire the responsibility of flag rank,* she continued. *He is content to command _Enterprise_.*

Trip realized the truth of T'Pol's remark immediately. _The last thing Jon wants is to be the one deciding which ships survive and which are lost._ "Uh, or we can leave it alone," Trip finished, lamely. "I'm sure Admiral Chu will do a fine job."

"I'm sure he will," Archer agreed. He stood, signaling the meeting was at an end. "I know you both have lots to do, so I'll let you get back to it. Hoshi is planning a big going-away bash in four days, since a third of the crew are being reassigned. Be sure to keep your calendars clear for that."

"We'll be there, Captain," Trip said.

*Well, that's gotta be a first,* Trip sent to T'Pol, as they left the room.

*What, my love?*

*You were more in tune with the Captain's emotional state than I was, and you're a Vulcan.*

*I am indeed a Vulcan. Such perceptiveness on your part is quite impressive.*

Trip grabbed at his heart, theatrically. "Ouch!" he said, aloud, "That really hurt. Who knew Vulcan sarcasm could be so cutting?"

She arched a single eyebrow, and gazed at him with the innocent look Trip called her 'Vulcan eyes', "More precisely, that was human sarcasm, which you should have recognized, since I learned it from you."

"You always were an apt pupil," Trip said, grinning, "and a good thing, too. You're going to need everything I taught you to command a ship full of humans."

At the mention of her command, the amusement left T'Pol like a deflating balloon. "I am honored by Starfleet's confidence in me, but I will miss _Enterprise_."

"I thought Vulcans didn't 'miss' things," Trip teased.

"Normally, we do not, but _Enterprise_ has been my home for five years. Except for you, all that I most cherish is here. Vulcan or not, I will miss it."

_So will I_, Trip thought, _so will I_.

#####

"Commander, do you have a moment?"

T'Pol turned and waited as Lieutenant Sato hurried up, "A minute, but no more. I have a meeting in the Armory."

"Are you meeting with Mal-- er, Commander Reed?" Hoshi asked, her eyes brightening as she spoke his name.

"Yes," T'Pol said. "What is it you require?"

"Um, I need some things from supply for the party. You or the Captain have to sign this requisition," Hoshi said, extending a PADD toward T'Pol.

T'Pol glanced down the list of items, and arched an eyebrow. "This is a large quantity of food, Lieutenant. Are you certain your calculations are correct?"

"I'm certain, Commander. This party is turning into quite the affair. Everybody who's anybody wants to come. Admiral Gardner and his staff will be there. Admiral Chu said he's coming. Even Ambassador Soval is making an appearance." Hoshi grinned, "_Enterprise_ will be hopping."

Her grin faded, replaced by a more introspective look. "Also, I... I want this to be a special night. It may be the last time some of us see each other."

"I understand, Lieutenant." T'Pol approved the list, and handed the PADD back to Hoshi.

"Thank you, ma'am."

T'Pol nodded, and started to turn away, then turned back, "Lieutenant, will there be dancing at this party?"

"Uh, yes... But don't worry, you won't have to participate," Hoshi answered. Then she giggled, "Everyone knows Vulcans don't dance."

#####

Captain Archer plopped on his bunk and exhaled noisily. His stateroom had once felt like a sanctuary. A place where he could get away from the hectic pace of life as a starship captain, if only for a few hours. Catch a water polo match. Read a book. Play tug-of-war with Porthos. _Ah, Porthos. Maybe if he were still here, this room wouldn't feel so... empty._

It had been several months since the Captain's beagle had finally succumbed to old-age, but Archer still missed him. _It's for the best, I suppose. The Xindi campaign was hard on him; I'm glad he's been spared having to endure another war._

Another war. Another indefinite hiatus from exploration. _At heart, I am an explorer, not a warrior. The __thrill of new discoveries, the excitement of the unknown--they are what give meaning to the sacrifices I've made for this ship, for my career. And now, they are gone. All I have to look forward to is more burning ships and broken bodies._

Even the pleasure he normally took from sharing the Captain's mess with Trip and T'Pol had grown hollow, as it only reminded him that in three days they, too, would be gone. _I suppose I haven't been very good company the last few days. Too busy feeling sorry for myself._ He resolved to be more upbeat in the morning.

The door chime interrupted his dour reflection. "Come in."

The door slid open and T'Pol entered, standing at the threshold with her hands clasped behind her back. "Captain, am I disturbing you?"

"No, T'Pol. Is everything okay?"

"Everything is fine. The reason for my visit is strictly unofficial, although it might require an hour of your time."

"For you, two hours. Come in, have a seat. Tell me what's on your mind."

T'Pol took the indicated seat. "Captain, I wish to learn how to dance," she said, after an uncharacteristic hesitation.

Archer would not have been more surprised if T'Pol had started crawling on the floor and barking like a dog. "You-- you want to learn to... _dance_? And you want _me_ to teach you?"

"I have observed you at previous parties. You appear to be an adequate dancer."

"I can hold my own, but I'm certainly no Fred Astair."

"Nor is it necessary for me to be Ginger Rogers."

Archer laughed aloud at that, the first laugh T'Pol had heard from him since the Romulan attacks. "I can see Trip has not neglected your education of old Earth cinema," he said.

"He has been quite diligent in that regard," T'Pol replied, dryly.

"So, is there any particular reason you suddenly have this urge to dance, or is it just your natural Vulcan exuberance?"

T'Pol did not rise to the bait, giving a serious answer to his whimsical question. "Trip recently dreamed of when he was a boy at a school dance. In the dream, he wanted to ask a girl to dance, but he was afraid she would reject him. He is still upset that he never asked her."

Archer nodded, "I remember Trip mentioning that once, back at the 602 Club. I'm surprised he'd admit that it still bothers him."

"He did not," T'Pol said. "He does not know I am aware of the incident."

"Then how did... oh. _Oh_. You saw his dream through your, uh, the uh..."

"Our bond. Yes."

"You can actually see each others dreams?" Archer asked. _That's a little more closeness than I think I'd be comfortable with._

"Sometimes. It depends on their intensity. This dream was more... vivid... than most. I believe it would mean a great deal to Trip if I were to dance with him at the party."

"I believe you are right," Archer agreed, quietly.

"Then you will teach me?"

Archer nodded. "Yes. But promise you'll make sure I'm in the room before you ask him. Seeing the first ever Vulcan to dance is a sight I don't want to miss."

"I will hardly be the first; my people once danced on frequent occasions. Dancing was one of many customs that fell into disfavor after the Awakening."

"Oh. Then you'll merely be the first Vulcan to dance in eighteen hundred years," Archer said, with a chuckle, "Hardly a big deal."

T'Pol twitched an eyebrow. "Hardly."

Archer stood. "Let's get started, then. We don't have a lot of room, but it will have to do. Any dance in particular you'd like to start with?"

"I believe it is called the 'Texas two-step'."

"Okay. Two-step it is. Stand here, facing me... left hand on my shoulder, your other hand on mine... like that." Her hand was warm on his, and her hair smelled of Starfleet-issue shampoo. _Careful, Jon, _Archer cautioned himself,_ It's been a while since you've been this close to a woman._

"I'll lead, you follow. Two short steps, then two long steps. Oops, start with your left foot. Let's try that again..."

They moved across the room, T'Pol quickly picking up the rhythm. "Don't watch my feet," Archer said, "eyes up here."

T'Pol looked up, and Archer found himself gazing into a pair of dark brown eyes. _Very_ dark. And very close. His step faltered and he came to an abrupt halt. _Dammit, Jon, you're acting like a love-sick puppy!_

"Was that not correct technique?" T'Pol inquired.

"Uh, yeah. It was flawless," Archer said, taking a step back. "I'm just not sure this is such a good idea. Me teaching you, that is."

T'Pol gave Archer a closer look, observing his elevated heart rate, quickened breathing, and flustered expression. She had been around humans long enough to know exactly what it meant. "You are becoming aroused."

Archer's face turned bright crimson, and he began to stammer an apology, but T'Pol interrupted him. "Jonathan, there is no need to apologize. It is a normal biological response for a healthy human male who has been without female companionship."

"You are my First Officer and my best friend's wife," he said, still blushing. "My reaction is inappropriate."

"No. It would only be inappropriate were you to act on it, which I know you will not. However, I can see now why my people avoid dancing. It can be... quite intimate."

"Which is precisely why humans do it," Archer observed, with a half-smile.

T'Pol was pleased to see that his intense embarrassment had subsided. "Shall we continue?" she asked.

Archer nodded, grateful for her clinical detachment and non-judgmental attitude. He steeled himself with a deep breath, and took her back into his arms. "Okay, here we go again. Short, short, long... long..."

After thirty minutes, T'Pol had mastered Archer's entire dance inventory. "You're pretty good at this," he noted. "Are you sure you've never danced before?"

"I am certain. It was no more difficult than learning a new unarmed combat procedure."

Archer chuckled, "I've heard boxing compared to ballet before, but never by a Vulcan."

"I do not believe I actually made that comparison," T'Pol said, with a characteristic eyebrow-quirk. "In any case, I am grateful for the lessons."

"It was my pleasure, T'Pol," Archer said. _Perhaps more so than it should have been,_ he added to himself. _Still, I did enjoy it._ "I suppose you should get back to Trip," he said, somewhat reluctantly. "He's probably wondering where you are."

T'Pol gazed off into the distance for a moment, then looked back at Archer. "At the moment, he is with Lieutenant Hess in Engineering. They are having some difficulty devising a watch rotation with only three officers qualified to stand an underway watch."

Archer just shook his head. "I keep forgetting about that bond thing you have with Trip," he remarked. "It sure does come in handy."

"Handy?"

"Handy. Useful. Like in preventing domestic strife."

"Domestic strife?"

"You know. Fights, disagreements. That sort of thing."

"I see." T'Pol walked over to a chair and sat. "Unfortunately, the bond by itself has been insufficient to prevent what you call 'domestic strife'."

Archer was intrigued. "Really? You and Trip, your relationship--it's the closest I've ever seen. It's hard to imagine the two of you fighting."

"Trip moved into my quarters two weeks after we were married," T'Pol related. "I gave him half of my drawer space."

Archer could barely believe his ears. _Is she really about to discuss personal matters? With me?_ "Uh-huh," he said, noncommittally, trying to draw her out further.

T'Pol continued her narrative. "He had a drawer full of miscellaneous items he called his 'junk drawer'. It was extremely untidy."

Archer could see it coming. "So you decided to tidy it up," he predicted.

T'Pol nodded. "Yes. I thought Trip would be pleased by all the free space I recovered in his drawer. When he found I had discarded his George Osborne rookie-season baseball card, he was terribly angry with me."

"His George Osborne card?" Archer groaned. "Oh, T'Pol, _That_ was a mistake."

"Indeed. Until that moment, I had no idea a human could form an emotional attachment to a piece of cardboard. I attempted to employ logic to convince him that he was behaving in an unreasonable manner, but to no avail. In fact, I think my logical analysis only served to anger him further."

Archer chuckled. "Imagine that."

"As his anger grew, I found I had to employ my logic in a louder and louder voice. Soon we were both yelling at each other."

"So what happened?"

"He said some things that made me believe our marriage was at an end."

"Oh boy."

"I had been warned by many that a relationship with a human would prove to be transient. This seemed to confirm that. Suddenly, my logic didn't matter any more. Nothing mattered. I felt empty at the thought of losing him."

"I'll bet that got his attention."

"You are correct. He spent the rest of the night trying to reassure me that I mattered more to him than a George Osborne rookie-season baseball card. Eventually, I allowed him to succeed."

Archer had to laugh, delighted by the unexpected glimpse into the personal lives of his two friends.

When Archer next checked, he was astounded at how much time had passed. "T'Pol, do you realize we've been talking for more than two hours?"

"Yes, Jonathan. Two hours and eighteen minutes."

_It wasn't just me doing all the talking was it?_ Archer thought, in amazement. _No, I'm pretty sure T'Pol was holding up her end of things._ "When did you get to be such a sparkling conversationalist?" he asked. "That's not exactly a skill Vulcans are known for."

"Such a skill is impossible _not_ to learn, if any time at all is spent among humans. You converse incessantly," T'Pol stated.

"I suppose we do," Archer conceded, "but tonight I am grateful. It's been a long time since I've enjoyed an evening this much--I needed it. Thanks. And be sure to thank Trip for letting me share some of his time with you."

"Trip says, 'You're welcome'," T'Pol replied, after the barest of pauses.

Archer smiled at that. "Goodnight, T'Pol."

"Goodnight, Jonathan."

**Continued in Chapter 5**


	5. Chapter 5

**Command**

**Author:** Transwarp

**Rating:** T (PG-13)

**Genre:** Action/Drama

**Disclaimer:** Paramount owns Star Trek names, and related intellectual property.

**Summary:** War breaks out with the Romulan Empire, and T'Pol assumes command of a Starfleet frigate. This is the third story in a series (order of stories: **'Commissioning'**, then **'Liaison'**, then **'Command'**).

**Note:** T'Pol's Italian lessons were inspired by Asso's delightful **Honeymoon** series, in which Trip and T'Pol take a much deserved honeymoon to Italy.

**FIVE  
**_Enterprise,_ 2 April 2156

"I'm ready to go," Trip announced, fastening the last button on his Dress Blues.

"Let me look at you," T'Pol said, giving him a critical glance. Apparently, he passed inspection, for she nodded her approval. "Your appearance is adequate."

"Gee, thanks. I guess." He returned the favor, sweeping her with an appreciative gaze. It was T'Pol's first time in a Starfleet dress uniform, and Trip was enjoying the way she filled it out. "Your appearance is absolutely fabulous."

"Have I ever worn _anything_ in all the time you have known me that you did not consider 'fabulous'?" she asked, pointedly.

"Lemme see," Trip replied, gazing upward in mock concentration. "Ummmmmm--No."

He grinned, and reached out to brush a piece of lint from her sleeve. That's when he noticed something missing. "T'Pol, where are your decorations?"

"Vulcans do not wear awards on their uniforms. It is considered boastful."

"Well, Starfleet officers do," Trip declared. "Especially when they've been awarded the Starfleet Medal of Honor."

"I do not wish to appear egotistical."

"T'Pol, you're looking at it all wrong. There is not a person on board who won't feel pride when they see you wearing that ribbon. We all took part in the rescue of the _Ki'Vaar_. You were just the tip of the spear; you couldn't have done it by yourself."

T'Pol gave Trip a doubtful look. "So by wearing my awards, I am honoring those who helped me earn them?"

"Exactly," Trip affirmed.

"Very well, I will wear them. Will you help me put them on? I am uncertain of their proper placement, and I do not desire for us to be late to the farewell party."

"No problem," Trip agreed. In short order, he had all the Starfleet decorations pinned to the left side of T'Pol's tunic in their proper order of precedence, and was left staring at the Vulcan Legion of Honor.

The Legion of Honor had been awarded to T'Pol by a grateful Vulcan High Council in the aftermath of the _Ki'Vaar_ rescue. "I think foreign awards go on the right side," Trip pondered, "but I'm not exactly sure where..."

"Perhaps you should look it up," T'Pol suggested. "Quickly."

Trip moved to the terminal to comply. A thought struck him as he keyed in his query. "So, T'Pol, I'm confused. If Vulcans don't wear awards, why do they even have them? What's the point?"

"An award becomes part of your service record," T'Pol answered, "obviating the need to display it. Although they are worn on certain ceremonial occasions."

"Not too different from the way we do things, then," Trip smirked. "Just consider this farewell party to be a ceremonial occasion. Ah, here it is: 'Placement and Precedence of Foreign Decorations'."

He pinned the Vulcan award in its proper location, then stepped back for an appraising look. "Perfect," he pronounced.

T'Pol could sense Trip's pride in her, and she took a very un-Vulcan pleasure in that pride. It more than made up for any discomfort she felt over displaying her awards.

#####

They made their way to the farewell party, which had been moved from _Enterprise_ to the much roomier facilities on the space dock to accommodate the rapidly growing guest list.

The doors to Cargo Bay Three were open, and the sound of music and murmur of conversation spilled out into the passageway. Trip and T'Pol entered, and looked around. "T'Pol, go grab a couple of seats at that table and I'll get us some drinks. What would you like?" Trip asked.

"Hot tea. Any kind." Trip nodded and headed for the bar, while T'Pol sat at the indicated table.

"Good evening, Commander."

T'Pol looked around at the source of the voice. "Ensign Ashcroft. Good evening."

"Actually, it's Lieutenant Ashcroft, now. I was promoted today."

T'Pol took a closer look at his uniform, and was startled to see a second pip on his shoulder. Startled, not because of his promotion, but because she was unaware of it. As his immediate supervisor in the astrophysics lab, and as his First Officer, she should have known about the promotion before he did. "I apologize, Lieutenant. I was not informed of your promotion." _And I __**will**__ find out why_, she promised herself.

"It's okay, ma'am. The promotion orders were sent to my new ship. I'm assigned to the USS _Arnhem_. She's a frigate."

That explained the lack of notification. "Congratulations on your promotion, Lieutenant. What will you be doing on _Arnhem_?" It was not an idle question; Ashcroft was an astrophysicist in _Enterprise's_ Science Division, and T'Pol was certain a frigate in wartime would not need the talents of an astrophysicist.

"I'm OIC of Sensor Division," Ashcroft replied. "_Arnhem_ has nothing like the sensor arrays on _Enterprise_, but what she does have, I'll be responsible for. Turns out all the SciDiv personnel on _Enterprise_ are being assigned to other ships, mostly in Sensor and Fire Control positions. The science labs are being converted into space for Admiral Chu and his staff, at least for the duration of the war. I just finished supervising the removal of the two mass spectrometers and all the chromatographs this morning. It was kinda sad."

T'Pol regarded the young scientist-turned-warrior and pondered how to respond. "It is sad," she replied, deciding that one of the unnecessary statements of agreement humans sprinkled their conversations with would be appropriate.

Ashcroft hesitated before continuing. "I, uh... I'm going to continue working on my research paper. I should have plenty of spare time, in between scanning for Romulan ships, and I was wondering if you, uh, you wouldn't mind continuing to, uh, review my work? I mean, I know you'll be Captain of your ship, and that'll keep you busy, and you won't have much free time for--"

T'Pol interrupted his ramblings, which showed no sign of ending on their own. "Lieutenant, I would enjoy reviewing your paper. Your thesis is promising, and I am gratified to hear that you will continue your research. You can send each section to me on _Chosin_ as you complete them. I will find the time to give you adequate feedback."

"Thank you, ma'am, Ashcroft said, smiling with relief, "That means a lot to me."

Trip returned with their drinks--hot tea for T'Pol and a beer for himself. He nodded at Ashcroft, who was leaving, then turned his attention to T'Pol. "Guess what," he announced, and T'Pol waited, having learned long ago that he didn't really intend for her to attempt a guess, "Petty Officer Carruthers and Crewman Wiley are both going to _Chosin_."

"Yes, I know. I have already reviewed my crew manifest."

"Really? Anyone else we know coming with us?"

T'Pol shook her head. "They are the only ones from _Enterprise_."

They sipped their beverages in silence, and watched as more party-goers trickled into the cargo bay.

"Ah, there's Malcolm," Trip said, "Let's go talk to him."

"I have been preparing Malcolm for his First Officer responsibilities the past few days. I am certain he has had enough of me. I will sit here and finish my tea."

"Okay. Well I'm off to mingle, then." Trip grabbed his beer and headed toward Malcolm on an intercept vector.

"Hey, Mal."

Malcolm glanced at Trip, but kept walking. "Beer first. Talk later."

Trip smiled. "Now there's a man who knows his priorities." He accompanied Malcolm to the bar. After retrieving a drink, they both stood off to the side and surveyed the growing crowd.

"Half these people aren't even from _Enterprise_," Malcolm said, pointedly.

"Relax, Mal. They're not spies or anything."

"Maybe not," Malcolm said, scowling, "but if it weren't for all the admirals, ambassadors, and other assorted dignitaries crashing our party, we could wear comfortable clothes, instead of being stuck in these dress blues." He tugged unhappily at the collar of his shirt.

Trip shrugged. "That's the price you pay for serving on the most famous ship in Starfleet. As for me, I'm not lettin' a bunch of admirals and ambassadors spoil my evening." He took a swig of beer to emphasize his point. "Hey, where's Hoshi?" he asked, looking around.

"Hoshi was still getting ready when I swung by her quarters. She told me to go on ahead and she'd be along later. She is absolutely the most unpunctual person I know. It's terribly frustrating." Malcolm shook his head, "I believe that woman will be late to her own funeral."

"Sorry Mal, I can't relate to that. I'm married to Mrs. On-Time. I don't think T'Pol's ever been late to anything in her whole life. The Naval Observatory could use her to calibrate their atomic clocks," Trip said with a chuckle. "Speaking of T'Pol, how did the First Officer brain dump go? Are you ready to take over?"

Malcolm considered his answer carefully before speaking. "It was, without a doubt, the most thorough hand-off I have ever experienced. She even gave me a homework assignment one night. Does she... is she like that about everything?"

"Yep. Pretty much. That's who she is."

"And it doesn't make you crazy? How do you live with that?"

"Hoshi makes you crazy when she's late, doesn't she? But would you change her? If you could?"

"I suppose not," Malcolm agreed, reluctantly, "but T'Pol is so-- so _relentless_. Never distracted. Never side-tracked. Nothing ruffles her. I felt totally inadequate.

"Yeah, she can be a royal pain in the ass, sometimes," Trip said, smiling. They both looked over to where T'Pol sat, quietly sipping her tea.

"Well, she is a typical Vulcan," Malcolm observed. "One must expect that."

Trip snorted, "That's where your wrong, Mal. T'Pol is anything but typical. In fact, among Vulcans, T'Pol is quite unconventional. A regular maverick."

"T'Pol? A maverick? Are you serious?"

"Absolutely. She chose to spend the last five years stuck on a starship with a crew of illogical, emotionally unstable humans, didn't she? She even married one. To most Vulcans, her behavior is incomprehensible."

Malcolm chuckled. "Well, that does explain what happened down in supply this afternoon."

"Yeah? What happened?"

"T'Pol was doing the annual supply inspection, and wanted me there to see how it's done. As if I didn't know how to conduct an inspection." Malcolm shook his head at the injustice, and drank a swallow of beer. "Anyway, she was checking the inventory of cold-weather jackets with Ensign Odierno. She started with the extra-large jackets, and worked down to the extra smalls. Then she looked down at her PADD and said, 'Your entire inventory of extra-medium jackets appears to be missing.'"

Trip choked back a snicker. "Extra-medium?"

Malcolm nodded vigorously. "Yes! She was quite stern in the way she said it, too. Ensign Odierno looked like he was going to panic, then he realized it was a joke and started to laugh, then he realized T'Pol never tells jokes, and he panicked all over again. It was actually very funny."

"And I missed it!"

"Hmmph, "Malcolm snorted, "I suspect YOU put her up to it."

Trip's expression dripped innocence. "Honest-to-God, Mal, I had nothing to do with it. That was all T'Pol."

"Really? It would appear there's more to her than meets the eye."

"Malcolm, you have no idea. I am constantly being surprised by her. Did you know she's learned to speak Italian?"

"Italian? Whatever for?"

"About six months ago, T'Pol discovered she enjoys listening to Italian opera. She wanted to understand the lyrics, so she taught herself Italian. Crewman Pittelli is amazed at how fluent she's become in such a short time.

"Crewman Pitelli may be amazed, " Malcolm stated smugly, "but I've known T'Pol long enough not to be surprised by her feats of intellectual prowess."

"True, a Vulcan learning Italian in six months may not be surprising, but a Vulcan listening to opera most _definitely_ is."

"Well, then," Malcolm said, raising his beer glass, "here's to T'Pol, the maverick Vulcan."

"To maverick Vulcans," Trip echoed, grinning.

He glanced over at T'Pol. A pair of dark Vulcan eyes regarded him over her mug of tea, and his breath caught in his throat. _If I live to be a thousand, I will never get tired of that sight,_ he thought. _She is so beautiful; my Italian-speaking, opera-listening, joke-telling maverick._

#####

The evening progressed, and the party hit its stride. All the expected dignitaries had arrived, and even a few unexpected ones--most notably Nathan Samuels, United Earth's Foreign Minister. An outraged Lieutenant Sato, fearful that her carefully calculated quantities of food and drink would prove insufficient, had asked Captain Archer for permission to 'throw the bums out'. She was only half joking.

Couples headed for the dance floor in steadily increasing numbers, and T'Pol caught Trip in an unguarded glance at the dancing pairs, his toes tapping rhythmically to the music. She clasped her hands firmly behind her back. "Trip, do you wish to dance?" she asked.

He shook his head. "There's no one here I'd really care to dance with. Anyway, I'd much rather be with you than out there dancing."

"No, my love. I'm asking if you wish to dance with me."

Trip's jaw dropped. "Wha-- Did-- did you just ask me to _dance?_ With _you?_

"Yes, my love, if that is your desire."

"I-- uh... T'Pol, Ambassador Soval is here."

"Yes. What of it?"

"He'll... He'll SEE you."

"Trip, my people already know that I am a--what did you call me tonight?--a 'maverick' Vulcan? Some of them disapprove and some have accepted it. I no longer concern myself with trying to appear to be something I am not; and I am no longer the same Vulcan who reported aboard _Enterprise_ five years ago." She took Trip by the hand and led him, stunned expression and all, toward the dance floor.

Trip shook off his surprise, and took her into his arms. _Is this really happening?_ he wondered. Catching the beat of the music, he stepped off, leading T'Pol onto the floor. She matched him flawlessly, step for step.

He masked his surprise at her proficiency, glancing around the room, instead. *Everyone is staring.*

*Does that distress you?*

Trip smiled, *No darlin'. If you're okay with it, then so am I. I just can't believe I'm actually out here dancing with you. It's the last thing I expected.*

*This is for you, my love.* Her eyes fastened on his, and the rest of the room faded from existence--There was only him, T'Pol, and the music.

Trip's heart soared, and he marveled at the enormity of T'Pol's actions. She had violated centuries of Vulcan custom and tradition in order to please him. T'Pol also marveled. She marveled that such a simple thing could bring such joy to her mate.

#####

Archer stood nursing his drink as he reminisced with an old acquaintance. Captain Harold Walker, a classmate from his Academy days, had just received orders to be Admiral Chu's Chief of Staff. He would be reporting aboard _Enterprise_ with Admiral Chu and the rest of the Second Fleet staff in the morning, but for now, he was regaling Archer and Mayweather with tales of his previous assignment at Centauri Station.

A strangled exclamation from Mayweather interrupted Walker's narrative: "Oh my God!"

Archer followed Mayweather's slack-jawed stare, and was greatly amused at the sight of his First Officer leading his bewildered Chief Engineer by the hand onto the dance floor. _She's actually going through with it,_ he thought. _Good for her._

"Oh. My. God." Mayweather repeated. "I think Commander T'Pol is going to _dance._

Walker paused his storytelling, an interested look on his face. "So that's the Vulcan officer I've heard so much about?"

"That's her," Archer confirmed, not taking his eyes off the pair on the dance floor.

"I thought Vulcans didn't dance."

"Only the really exceptional ones," Archer replied. Walker noted the quiet pride in Archer's voice, and shot him a quick glance before his attention returned to the dancing pair.

Elsewhere in the cargo bay, Mayweather's reaction, with minor variations, was duplicated by the rest of _Enterprise's_ officers and crew. Lieutenant Sato, after recovering from the initial shock, scurried over to the crewman running the sound system. "Pierce! Queue up a slow song next. Something slow AND romantic!"

Crewman Pierce acknowledged Hoshi's breathless command with a grin. "Yes ma'am. I've got just the thing."

The end result exceeded Hoshi's wildest expectations. As the music slowed, Trip pulled T'Pol in close, wrapping his arms around her back. She lay her head against his chest, eyes shining with contentment, and they swayed gently to the music.

Hoshi's only comment was a heartfelt "Aaaaawww..." Nothing else needed to be said.

The two Commanders danced, oblivious to the attention they garnered. After a minute or so, the novelty of a dancing Vulcan wore off, and the room's occupants returned their focus to the more serious business at hand: partying, and forgetting the war.

#####

After some time--not even T'Pol, with her Vulcan time sense, could say how long--Trip was brought back to the present by the smell of food wafting from a long row of tables against the outer bulkhead. This reminded him that he had followed Hoshi's pre-party instructions to 'bring an appetite'.

*Are you hungry, darling?* he sent to T'Pol.

Reluctantly, she joined Trip back in reality, *No, my love, but I sense that you are. Perhaps you should get something to eat.*

*Good idea. I believe I will.* He disengaged from her arms, and together they moved off the dance floor.

"Trip, may we dance again, before the night ends?" T'Pol asked.

Trip grinned. "Absolutely. So, you like dancing, huh?" He was still amazed that T'Pol would participate in such an intimate activity, in public.

"Yes. I find it to be... to be..." She fumbled unsuccessfully for the precise term to describe her feelings, "...quite agreeable," she finished, lamely.

Trip nodded. "S'okay, I know what you mean."

They split up, Trip heading for the buffet tables, T'Pol to get another mug of tea. On the way to the bar, she found herself face-to-face with Ambassador Soval.

"It is good to see you again, Commander," he said.

"And you, also, Ambassador."

"You should know that you have just scandalized half of my staff," Soval said, accompanying T'Pol to the drink bar.

"Perhaps they are not suited for diplomatic work on alien worlds, if they are so easily offended." T'Pol replied, evenly. She browsed through the display of tea bags, selecting a packet of mint tea.

"It was not the alien environment that unsettled them, but the sight of another Vulcan so blatantly engaged in intimate activities."

T'Pol turned and looked Soval in the eye, "Ambassador, I am a Starfleet officer, serving on a human ship with a human crew. I am married to a human who loves me the way humans love each other--a way that I did not earn. If I must choose between pleasing my husband and not scandalizing your staff, I will choose my husband every time."

Soval nodded. "I understand. Your loyalty is commendable, and it appears to be reciprocated. I understand Starfleet has given you a ship of your own?"

"Yes. The U.S.S. _Chosin_. I am to take command tomorrow." She filled a mug with hot water and dropped the teabag in. "Would you care for some tea, Ambassador?"

"No, perhaps later." He took in the rows of decorations on her uniform, and lifted his eyebrows. "Your standing among the humans has improved greatly. Two years ago, you required extraordinary measures to be commissioned. Now you are the most decorated officer in Starfleet, and the Captain of a ship."

"I do not understand," T'Pol said, confused. What do you mean, 'extraordinary measures'?"

"Did Captain Archer not inform you of how you came to receive your commission?"

"He did not indicate anything out of the ordinary had occurred," T'Pol replied.

"Evidently, your request was initially denied, and Captain Archer threatened to resign if you did not receive a commission. Starfleet reevaluated their decision in the face of his threat, and the request was subsequently approved."

"I had not heard that," T'Pol said. "Did Captain Archer tell you this?"

"No. It was Admiral Forrest who told me. Repeatedly. He took great pleasure in relating to me just how much Captain Archer was willing to risk on your behalf."

"Captain Archer has been a good friend to me." _Perhaps a better friend than I realized,_ T'Pol thought.

"You have been a good friend to the humans, also," Soval said. "In fact, Commander, you have done more to improve relations between Earth and Vulcan than all the diplomats of both planets combined. The government of United Earth trusts you like they trust no other Vulcan--as demonstrated by your being given command of a Starfleet vessel."

"And yet the High Council's decision to remain neutral toward Romulus is threatening to undo everything I might have accomplished," T'Pol pointed out. "It seems to me this alliance has only benefited Vulcan. How much longer do you believe Earth will tolerate such a one-sided agreement?"

"Earth will not do anything until the Romulan conflict has been resolved," Soval said, after carefully considering the question. "At that point, I believe they will terminate the alliance."

"Assuming Earth is not conquered by Romulus," T'Pol said, pointedly. "The outcome of this war is very much in doubt, especially without Vulcan military assistance."

"Commander," Soval said, "I want you to know that this Embassy has strongly protested the High Council's decision. And believe me, the humans have made no attempt to hide their displeasure from me."

"I am sure they have not."

"I am working behind the scenes to get the High Council to reconsider their position. So far, nothing I have said has been able to sway them."

"Indeed?" T'Pol's nostrils flared as she spoke. "Perhaps you are saying the wrong things. Perhaps you should tell the High Council that if the humans defeat Romulus without Vulcan assistance, they will logically conclude that they no longer need Vulcan for anything. Humans will make their own way, set their own policies, pursue their own agendas, all without Vulcan advice or oversight. Earth will be the new power in this quadrant, and Vulcan will become irrelevant, relegated to second-class status. We will have to be satisfied with whatever crumbs Earth leaves us, and we will have deserved it."

Soval opened his mouth to respond, somewhat taken aback by her passion, but T'Pol was not finished: "Perhaps you should remind the High Council of the twenty-seven _Enterprise_ crewmen who died in the Expanse defeating the sphere-builders. Perhaps you should remind them of the five humans who died saving the _Ki'Vaar_ and its crew from the Romulans. Perhaps you should ask them if this is how Vulcan repays a debt of honor. Perhaps you should ask them to imagine how Earth would respond if it had been Vulcan that was attacked. If their imagination is insufficient to the task, then you might inform them that Earth would honor the alliance and mobilize in Vulcan's defense. Earth would risk the blood of its sons and daughters to protect Vulcan. Perhaps you should tell them _that._"

Soval closed his mouth, unable to speak. He was an experienced diplomat with over a century's worth of service, yet for the first time in his career he felt shame--shame that he had not framed his arguments to the High Council in the simple yet powerful terms that Commander T'Pol had employed. Her accusation struck home: he _had_ been saying the wrong things. He had presented his case logically, in terms of pro and con, gain and loss, cost and benefit. But it was not a matter of cost and benefit; it was a matter of right and wrong. It was wrong for Vulcan to turn its back on Earth. It was wrong for Vulcan to disregard its debts. Earlier in his diplomatic career, he would have known that without having to be reminded. He wasn't sure when, but at some point he had ceased evaluating situations from an ethical perspective.

T'Pol watched as Soval's realization played out in his mind. A non-Vulcan might have missed it, but T'Pol caught the emotional impact her words had on him, and she became acutely aware that she had just verbally upbraided her former mentor and Vulcan's senior ambassador to Earth. "Ambassador, I... I apologize for my harsh words. I meant no disrespect to you--"

Soval raised a hand, cutting her off, mid-apology. "T'Pol, it is I who should apologize. I have worked in a field that values vague dissembling and obtuse deceptions for so long that I have almost forgotten how to speak the truth. You have reminded me of what is important." He took her by the arm, "Come; there is something we must do."

"Where are we going?" T'Pol asked, as he led her toward the door.

"To _Enterprise_. I need access to a secure subspace terminal."

"For what purpose?"

"If my calculations are correct, the High Council is meeting at this moment. You are going to tell them what you just told me."

It took every bit of Vulcan reserve T'Pol possessed to keep her utter astonishment from showing. "Sir, is that wise? They will not listen to me; not with my reputation."

"Your reputation has undergone a considerable transformation since the _Ki'Vaar_ rescue. I should let you read Captain Savok's report to the Council sometime; he was quite impressed with your character. Also, no other Vulcan can match your knowledge and understanding of humans. They will most certainly listen to you."

As she left the cargo bay, she sent Trip a quick update across their bond, *I have some business with Ambassador Soval I must attend to. I should return within the hour.*

*Anything you need my help with?*

*No, Trip.*

*Okay. Don't forget, I promised you another dance.*

*I will not forget, my love. I intend to hold you to that promise.*

**Continued in Chapter 6.**


	6. Chapter 6

**Command**

**Author:** Transwarp

**Rating:** T (PG-13)

**Genre:** Action/Drama

**Disclaimer:** Paramount owns Star Trek names, and related intellectual property.

**Summary:** War breaks out with the Romulan Empire, and T'Pol assumes command of a Starfleet frigate. This is the third story in a series (order of stories: **'Commissioning'**, then **'Liaison'**, then **'Command'**).

**Note:** The concept of Vulcan clans is lifted directly from Bluenblack's **'For Want of a Nail'** series. [**'For Want of A Nail'**, **'In the Cold of the Night'**, **'Father to the Man'**, and **'Purgatory'**] In fact, they are a must-read if you want to know what life on Vulcan is like. Bluenblack makes Vulcan a real place, populated with real people. I shamelessly stole T'Pol's clan name from him, but I had no choice: After all, it's _real_.

**SIX  
**_Space Dock 12,_ 2 April 2156

After the subspace call with the High Council, T'Pol returned to the party alone. She stood quietly inside the door, absorbing the atmosphere of revelry, savoring the music, and delighting in the sounds of human laughter. _It is interesting how much brighter everything seems now than it did just forty minutes ago,_ she thought.

Trip caught her mood and crossed the cargo bay to join her, a quizzical look on his face. "Good news?"

She nodded. "Yes. Ambassador Soval and I just spoke with the Vulcan High Council. They have voted to provide military support to the Coalition. Vulcan's fleet is being mobilized as we speak, and will be fully committed to the war effort."

Trip nearly dropped his beer. "You gotta be shitting me!"

"Vulcans do not shit," T'Pol said, primly. Trip's snort of derision caused her to review her remark. "Vulcans do not shit in the manner with which you just used the term," she amended.

"So,Vulcan is in the fight, now. That's great news," Trip said, with enthusiasm "The odds against us have gone from impossible to dismal. I'll take dismal any day."

"Dismal is indeed an improvement over impossible," T'Pol agreed.

"Say, where's Soval?" Trip asked, looking around, "I want to thank him."

"The Ambassador has much to do, now that Vulcan is entering the war. He went back to the Embassy to formally notify United Earth of Vulcan's support, and to begin the detailed coordination that will be required between our governments."

"Okay. Well, then, let's spread the news. I have a funny feeling this party is about to take off."

The party did take off. Word that Vulcan would be joining the fight spread through the room like wildfire, and what had started as a bittersweet farewell to comrades became an enthusiastic celebration.

The guests and dignitaries began to leave as midnight approached, and Hoshi circulated among the _Enterprise_ crew, quietly informing them that the party would be moving to _Enterprise's_ launch bays as soon as the last guest left. The junior crew members started slipping out much earlier, and if the party on the space dock was enthusiastic, it became positively boisterous after moving to _Enterprise,_ away from the inhibiting influence of the admirals and elder statesmen.

It was after midnight before Trip, T'Pol, and Captain Archer made it back to _Enterprise_. They had been pulled into an impromptu strategy session with Admiral Gardner and Admiral Chu over the ramifications of Vulcan's entry into the war. T'Pol was pumped for every last detail she could recall from her meeting with the High Council. Archer and T'Pol were asked for their opinions on different deployment options. Trip refrained from scratching himself and tried to look important.

When they finally rejoined the party on _Enterprise,_ they were greeted with hoots of welcome. Beers were thrust into the hands of Archer and Trip, while T'Pol was handed an overly-sweetened ice tea, which she subtly set aside on a folding table loaded with food brought back from the space dock.

"Are you going to drink that?"

T'Pol turned to find Phlox pointing at the glass of tea. "It is sweeter than I like, Doctor. You are welcome to it."

Smiling broadly, he scooped it up and took a sip. "It could use a little more sugar, but it's still quite refreshing."

"Judging by the taste, the solubility of that tea has reached the saturation point."

"I see no precipitate," Phlox replied, holding the glass up to the light, "I believe it could hold a few more grams."

T'Pol quirked an eyebrow, silently conceding his point.

"Commander, there is a name I need to give you," Phlox said. "Doctor Kesvan. He is a Denobulan physician specializing in reproductive genetics. Here is his contact information." Phlox handed her a small slip of paper.

T'Pol glanced at the paper. "Why are you giving me this?"

"I have sent him all my research on Vulcan and Human genomes. If anything happens to me, he has agreed to help you and Commander Tucker conceive a child."

"I see," she said. "Doctor, you are with the Interspecies Medical Exchange, not Starfleet. You do realize the IME does not require you to stay on _Enterprise_? Not in time of war."

"Yes, I realize that. However, I can't leave, not in good conscience. My services will be needed now more than ever. I'm surprised you even suggest it."

"You misunderstand me. I was not suggesting you would shirk your duty. You have nothing to prove to anyone; not after your service in the Expanse. However, I know you have family that you have not seen in many years, and I..." T'Pol was silent for several seconds before continuing. "Forgive me, Doctor, I mean no offense, but I do not think I could be separated from my husband as long as you have been from your wives."

"No offense taken," Phlox said, with a reassuring smile. "I am not sure I can explain in a manner you would understand. While I love them very much, I can only say my need for my wives is not as strong as your need for Commander Tucker." Phlox's smile faded as it occurred to him that his choice of words might not have been the best to use with a Vulcan, and he hastily backtracked, "Not that I am saying you have emotional needs, I was merely trying to say--"

"Doctor, do not apologize. You were correct. I do need Commander Tucker, as much as I need water or oxygen. To deny it would be illogical."

Phlox could not hide his astonishment at T'Pol's frank admission. "There was a time, not too long ago, when you _did_ deny it, even though it was patently obvious to everyone else."

"It was not patently obvious to me. As a Vulcan, I had... difficulty... learning to understand and accept the needs of my heart. It is much easier for me now."

Phlox's smile returned, and he congratulated himself once again on the small role he had played in getting the two commanders together. Despite a rocky start, it had turned out to be one of his greatest matchmaking successes.

Trip chose that moment to arrive bearing a mug of hot chamomile tea in one hand. In the other was a freshly refilled beer. "Here, T'Pol. This might be more to your liking," he said, offering the mug of tea.

"Thank you." She took it from his hand, then sent a non-verbal message, *Trip, that is your fifth beer. You do not want to become inebriated. We are due aboard _Chosin_ at 0700 this morning.*

*It's okay. I know _Chosin's_ Captain. Besides,* he added, looking around the launch bay, *I can out-place anyone in the drink.*

*That's a joke,* he continued, at T'Pol's blank look.

*I do not 'get' it.*

*Well, it's not funny if I have to explain it.*

She gave him her 'Vulcan eyes'. *Then perhaps it is not funny?*

He chuckled. *perhaps not.*

The music changed from something with heavy, thumping bass to a melodic waltz. Trip looked around to find the occupants of the bay had formed a large, rough semicircle, with Trip and T'Pol at the perimeter. All eyes were on the couple.

*Uh-oh,* Trip sent.

Captain Archer caught Trip's eye, and motioned towards the open area. "Go ahead, dance," he invited.

Smiling and nodding enthusiastically, other crew members picked up the call until it had become a rhythmic chant: "Dance! Dance! Dance!"

"I think they want us to dance," Trip remarked, as if T'Pol might have trouble deciphering their intent.

"Then we must not disappoint them," she replied, setting her tea aside.

Trip did likewise, then held an arm out to T'Pol. "Commander, may I have this dance?"

"It would be my honor." She placed a hand on his arm and allowed him to lead her to the center of the launch bay.

_That is not just an idle phrase to her,_ Trip realized. _She truly means it._ He wondered, once again, what he had done to earn such devotion.

They danced, lost in each other's gaze, oblivious to the rough deck of the launch bay and the fond smiles and well-wishes of their shipmates.

#####

Trip sat on the bed, his forearms resting on his knees, and watched T'Pol as she finished packing. It was 0530 and the party had only recently broken up. There had been a reluctance on everyone's part to leave, as if they all knew it was the end of something special, something they might never see again.

"Tonight was magic," Trip said. "There are some dark days ahead of us, but tonight was the kind of night that can sustain a guy for a long time. Thank you, T'Pol."

"If, as you say, tonight was 'magic', I am not certain I had anything to do with it."

Trip had to smile at that. "Then who, exactly, was I dancing with?"

T'Pol tilted her head as she considered that. "You are saying that I endowed the evening with magical qualities simply by dancing with you?"

Trip nodded. "That's exactly what I'm saying. And it wasn't just me; everyone there got a boost from it."

"The Vulcan contingent received no 'boost' from it," T'Pol pointed out.

"Well, of course _they_ wouldn't. But the rest of us did."

"From you and me dancing?"

"Sure. When we danced, it was something good, something _right_, something which seemed impossible--or at least unlikely--before it happened. But it _did_ happen." Trip looked down at his hands for a moment, then back at T'Pol. "I don't think you understand how much our relationship means to the rest of the crew. We're the happily-ever-after fairy tale. The long shot that pays off. The underdogs that win. Humans love a story like that."

"I did not realize we were regarded in such a manner. It explains much." T'Pol closed the last bag and set it on the floor, then stood back and regarded her handiwork. "I must make arrangements to have our excess bags placed in storage. There is insufficient room for everything in our quarters on _Chosin_."

"Relax, I've taken care of it." Trip said. He reached into his pocket, and tossed a bundle of tags at T'Pol. "Transporter tags. The blue ones are for bags going to _Chosin_, the green ones for bags going to the Starfleet warehouse in Sacramento. I've already coordinated with Chief Buettner. All you have to do is fill them out and put them on the right bags."

T'Pol looked at one of the tags. On the front were blank lines for last name, first name, and service number. "I do not have a last name," T'Pol noted. "Or maybe I do not have a first name. I am uncertain."

"Huh. I always thought of T'Pol as your first name, because that's what I call you. But then everyone else calls you Commander T'Pol, as if it were your last name. I don't know. Don't you have a clan name you can use?"

"My clan name would not fit on this tag."

"Write small."

"I am of clan Sh'hiran'lin'iijyliunh'rei'iy'iukn'hy'wen'lhia'ehrm'n"

Trip blinked. "Uh, write _really_ small."

"I have a better idea." T'Pol grabbed a pen and wrote TUCKER, T'POL, 5643321 in neat block letters.

"Problem solved," Trip said, grinning. "Besides, T'Pol Tucker sounds a lot better than T'Pol of clan Sh'rumanumanumanumanuma'whatever."

After the bags were tagged, Trip punched the comm unit and informed Chief Buettner. Less than a minute later, a faint hum filled the room, and the bags dissolved in a coruscating display of transporter activity.

"There are certain advantages to being Chief Engineer," Trip said, smugly. "Let's go, then. We have a shuttle to catch."

He started for the door, but T'Pol made no move to join him.

"T'Pol?"

She turned and looked at him. *Most Peculiar,* she sent. *Now that it is time, I am suddenly reluctant to leave.*

Trip put a comforting hand on her back. *I know how you feel, darling. I have fond memories of this room. I was happy here. The happiest I've ever been.*

T'Pol took a last look around, then stepped through the door. *Trip, I will require your assistance meditating tonight. The emotions of this moment are... very strong.*

_They certainly are,_ Trip thought. _They certainly are._

**Continued in Chapter 7.**


	7. Chapter 7

**Command**

**Author:** Transwarp

**Rating:** T (PG-13)

**Genre:** Action/Drama

**Disclaimer:** Paramount owns Star Trek names, and related intellectual property.

**Summary:** War breaks out with the Romulan Empire, and T'Pol assumes command of a Starfleet frigate. This is the third story in a series (order of stories: **'Commissioning'**, then **'Liaison'**, then **'Command'**).

**SEVEN  
**_Chosin,_ 3 April 2156

Trip peered over the shoulder of the shuttle pilot as they approached _Chosin's_ forward docking port. "There's our new home," he said to T'Pol, quite unnecessarily--she was occupying the co-pilot's seat and had a better view than he did. "So, tell me again why I can't go straight to engineering?" he asked.

"I have arranged for a meeting of all my officers on the mess deck. You are one of my officers, therefore I require your presence."

"Okay, but try not to be too long-winded. I've got a ton of work to do before this ship will be ready to get underway."

"When have I ever been 'long-winded'?" T'Pol asked, pointedly.

"Never, since I've known you. Still, there's a first time for everything." Trip grinned, "Heck, I'd never seen you dance, before last night."

"I shall endeavor to be succinct."

Trip considered that for a moment. "Uh, not _too_ succinct," he advised. "These are humans you're talking to, not Vulcans."

T'Pol lifted an eyebrow. "Very well, I shall endeavor to be succinct, but not too succinct. Do you have any more helpful advice?"

"Of course. I'm full of helpful advice; you know that."

"Indeed I do."

A gentle bump informed them they had engaged the docking port. "We're here," the shuttle pilot announced. "Good luck, and good hunting."

Trip led T'Pol through the port and onto _Chosin_. They were met by a lone figure in Starfleet blue. "Welcome aboard, Captain T'Pol, Commander Tucker. I'm Lieutenant Graham, _Chosin's_ First Officer. I... I just want to tell you what a privilege, a great privilege it is to meet you both... and I just want you to know I've been following news about _Enterprise_ since before I joined Starfleet, and to serve with two of her officers is something I never expected to be able to--"

Trip interrupted the monologue. "Why Lieutenant, I'm blushing," he said, fanning his face vigorously with one hand.

It was Lieutenant Graham who actually blushed, "Sorry, sir. Was I babbling? I try not to. You must think I'm some kind of--

"You're doing it again," Trip pointed out.

"Oh. Sorry again. I've assembled the other officers on the mess deck, as you requested. I'll shut up and take you there."

T'Pol nodded. "Thank you, Lieutenant. Please lead the way."

They followed Lieutenant Graham through the frigate's narrow passageways and cramped interior spaces. _Chosin_ was clearly designed in a more utilitarian manner than _Enterprise_, without any of the latter's aesthetic touches. She was drab and functional; nothing more. They came to the central section of the deck, and were greeted by a pair of ladders running up to the deck above.

"I think they ran out of money before they could put in the turbolifts," Graham said, apologetically.

Trip shrugged, "Saves on mass, anyway."

They went up two decks, then aft, past the galley to the mess area, where nine other officers were waiting.

"Attention on deck!" Graham barked, as he preceded his Captain and Chief Engineer through the door. The occupants of the room popped to their feet, eager for their first look at their near-legendary Captain.

"As you were," T'Pol said. She looked slowly around the room. Not counting her and Trip, there were ten officers present; three lieutenants and seven ensigns. *Trip, they seem so very _young_,* she sent.

*That's because they are,* Trip replied. *I feel like a school teacher standing up here.*

T'Pol got right down to business. "I am Commander T'Pol, and this is my Chief Engineer, Commander Tucker. This ship was designed for a crew of seventy, but there are only forty-seven of us. Because of this, we must all work more than one job. Immediately following this meeting, I will interview each of you individually, starting with Lieutenant Graham. I will review your backgrounds and experience, and assign you duties that are commensurate with your abilities. They may not be the assignments to which you were originally billeted. At 0900 I will hold a muster of all hands in the launch bay, where I will address the crew and post the station bill."

She looked around the room again, putting faces to the names on the crew's manifest. "Do you have any questions for me?" she asked.

There were no questions.

"Very well. You are dismissed until I call for you." *Was that succinct enough?* she sent to Trip.

*Not bad, for a long-winded Vulcan.*

As they stood to leave, she singled out the two officers assigned to Engineering, "Ensign Saracco and Ensign Hoefler, I do not need to interview you. Commander Tucker will give you your assignments."

Trip motioned for the two Ensigns, and they followed him from the room. T'Pol accompanied Lieutenant Graham to the small CO's office immediately below the bridge. As she entered the room, she noted absently that her and Trip's bags had been placed by the door leading into the adjoining captain's quarters.

She sat across the table from him and called up his service record on a terminal. "You were promoted to Lieutenant six months ago." She observed.

He nodded. "Yes, ma'am."

"You have no deep-space experience."

"No, ma'am."

"No prior postings on a sub-light vessel of any type, either."

"No. I've been at Starfleet headquarters, in one capacity or another, since I graduated from the Academy."

"Yet you were assigned to the First Officer billet."

Lieutenant Graham shrugged, "I didn't ask for the job, but there is literally no one else. They started filling the cruisers with the most experienced officers, then worked their way down to the frigates. I understand by the time they got to the corvettes, they had petty officers acting as department heads."

T'Pol read through the rest of his service record. It didn't take long. Then she looked back at Graham. "I am sorry, Lieutenant, but Commander Tucker will be my First Officer. He has the experience you lack."

Graham nodded his understanding. In fact, he almost looked relieved. "Who will be Chief Engineer?" he asked.

"Commander Tucker will fill both positions," she answered. "His engineering duties will consume all of his time, which means you will still be responsible for performing all the administrative tasks required of the First Officer. I am also putting you in charge of Weapons Division. I am assuming responsibility for Operations Department, so you will report directly to me."

Graham's look of relief disappeared, to be replaced by a distinctly uncomfortable expression "Uh, that's not quite what Chief Verley recommended."

"What do you mean?"

"Chief Petty Officer Verley," Graham explained. "He's the senior enlisted crewman on board."

"I am aware of who he is, Lieutenant. I am just uncertain what he has to do with my organizational decisions."

"We sat down together after I reported aboard and went through a similar analysis. He made me the Ops Officer, and Ensign Koussa Weps."

T'Pol's gaze never wavered from Graham's face, and his discomfort grew. "Lieutenant, are you telling me that an enlisted crewman was making the officer duty assignments?"

"Uh, yes--I mean no, ma'am. He, uh, he recommended the assignments, and I approved them. Chief Verley has thirty years of service, most of it in space. He said you'd be very busy when you came aboard, and you'd appreciate the fact that we had already taken care of the station bill. His recommendations seemed to make sense to me..." Graham's voice trailed of, uncertainly.

"They may 'make sense', but that is not how I am running this ship."

"Yes, ma'am."

"You are uncomfortable with this decision. Why?"

Lieutenant Graham hesitated before answering. "I don't think it's my place to say."

"That is true only if the information you possess has no bearing on my ability to command this vessel. Is that the case?"

If Lieutenant Graham looked uncomfortable before, he looked completely miserable now. "No, ma'am. That's not the case."

"Then perhaps you should tell me what you know."

Graham looked down at the table, avoiding T'Pol's gaze. "Yesterday, when we were discussing personnel assignments, I suggested that we might want to wait until you were here. Chief Verley got a little agitated with me, and said as a Vulcan, you would not be qualified to make those kinds of assessments on humans. He said it would be best if it were properly done and already implemented before your arrival. I... I thought of stopping him, but I was... I was intimidated by his experience. He might be upset if you ignore his recommendations."

"They appear to be demands rather than recommendations," T'Pol observed. "Thank you for your honesty, Lieutenant. It appears I have matters to discuss with Chief Verley. Where might I find him?"

"In the ship's office. I can take you there, Captain."

"That is not necessary. I believe this discussion is best limited to me and Chief Verley."

#####

As T'Pol approached the transverse passageway leading to the ship's office, her Vulcan hearing picked up the sounds of human conversation.

"...bad enough that they let her into Starfleet, but now she's a captain? My dad's gotta be rollin' over in his grave."

"Yeah, well the good news is this ship is probably the safest place in Starfleet right now. Vulcans are all gutless cowards. They sat on their butts after the Xindi attack, and they're sitting on their butts now. I'm guessing our Vulcan captain will turn tail and run at the first sign of trouble. What do you think, Chief?"

T'Pol came to a stop outside the office and listened.

"I think you're all a bunch of whiners. Okay, so the skipper's a Vulcan. So the job should've gone to a human. So it stinks. So what? There's not a damn thing we can do about it except wait for Starfleet to figure out they made a mistake and correct the error. Until then, we've got a war to fight."

"Assuming our gutless captain will let us fight."

"Yes, assuming that. Just be careful where you say that, Jason. Not everyone agrees with you."

*Trip. I require your advice,* T'Pol sent.

*Sure, darling. I'm never short of advice.*

T'Pol quickly informed Trip of the situation. She couldn't see it, but she knew he was scowling.

*I was afraid this might happen,* Trip sent. *They're acting the way _I_ acted when you first came aboard _Enterprise_. Once they get to know you, the problem goes away. Unfortunately, we don't have the time for that. This could destroy the ship if left alone. You can't ignore it.*

*I have no intention of ignoring it, but I am unsure of the best way to proceed.*

*Talk to him. Alone, without his cronies around. He needs to understand who's running this ship. If he can't accept that, then you need to get rid of him.*

*I concur,* T'Pol replied. She walked into the office. Chief Verley was seated behind the only desk in the room. His demeanor reminded her very much of the imperious way V'Las had run the Vulcan High Command. She hadn't liked it then, and she didn't like it now. There were two other crewmen in the room, one perched on the edge of the desk, the other sitting in the only other chair. They stared at T'Pol with varying degrees of surprise and consternation.

Chief Verley was the first to recover his equilibrium. "Mornin' Captain, and welcome aboard _Chosin_. I'm Chief Petty Officer Verley, Doyle Verley. This is PO3 Nelson Wageman and Crewman Jason Ruck. May we be of assistance?"

"Yes, Chief. I must speak with you. Alone." She looked at Wageman and Ruck. "You are dismissed."

They both looked at Chief Verley. He gave a barely perceptible nod, then they stood to leave.

T'Pol observed the subtle interplay with displeasure. _They take their orders from the Chief. I cannot permit that._ "Wait," she said. The two crewmen paused, looking at her. "You will remain here. Chief Verley and I will speak in my office." She walked from the room, and waited in the passageway for Chief Verley to join her.

The trip to the CO's office was made in silence. She motioned the Chief into a chair, while she sat at her desk.

"Chief Verley, I was coming to speak with you about the ship's station bill."

He nodded, "Ah, yes. I thought you might want to discuss that."

"Unfortunately, that matter is now of secondary importance. I happened to overhear some of your conversation with Petty Officer Wageman and Crewman Ruck."

A fleeting look of concern crossed Chief Verley's face, but he quickly regained his composure. "I admit Wageman and Ruck are a little--"

T'Pol interrupted him. "Chief Verley, I am not a coward."

He looked uncomfortable, but did not back down. "I did not say you were."

"Perhaps not, but a crewmen called me a 'gutless coward' in your presence, and you did not correct him. Instead, you implied that it was a mistake for Starfleet to give me a command."

"Yes ma'am. I did say that, and I believe it. You're a Vulcan; the crew is human. That is a recipe for disaster."

"My record on _Enterprise_ would indicate otherwise."

Verley almost sneered at that. "Oh yes, _Enterprise_. You did quite well there, I hear. But _you_ weren't in command, Captain Archer was. And Starfleet sure as hell couldn't let you fail, not if they wanted to protect their precious Coalition."

"Your premise is faulty, but that is immaterial," T'Pol noted. "Starfleet has given me command of this vessel. They would not have done so if they did not think me capable. I would not have accepted if I were not capable. Your opinion on the matter is irrelevant."

Verley gave T'Pol a frosty glare. "Then I suppose there is nothing more to say, except that you will have my request for a transfer on this desk within the hour."

"I will not approve it."

T'Pol's flat statement took Verley by surprise. He opened his mouth to respond, then closed it abruptly when he realized he had no response.

"I have reviewed your service record," T'Pol said. "You are one of the few crewmen on this ship with any experience on warp-capable vessels. If I let you go, I am likely to get a replacement that spent the last twenty years on an orbital space dock. Or worse, behind a desk in San Francisco."

"That's not my concern. I can't serve under a Vulcan."

"Why?"

Verley snorted, "You really don't want to know."

"Yes, I really do."

Verley shrugged. "Suit yourself," he said. "Vulcans are rigid and inflexible. They can't be reasoned with; as soon as they pronounce something illogical, the discussion is over. It's like the facts don't matter. Then there's that damn Vulcan smugness. I swear they think humans are uncivilized animals--at least they treat us that way. And how about the lack of support we get from our so-called allies? Maybe they're not cowards, but when Vulcans don't support their allies, they sure _look_ like cowards." He glared defiantly at T'Pol.

T'Pol calmly met his gaze. "An official announcement has not yet been made, so you are doubtless unaware that Vulcan military forces are joining the war against Romulus. As for the rest of your list, there is a great deal of truth to it."

Verley struggled to keep the surprise off his face. Of all the things T'Pol could have said, that was the last thing he expected.

T'Pol continued, "Vulcans pursue logic the way humans pursue virtue and integrity. And like humans, they often fall short of perfection. They often do not see the flaws in their own reasoning. They can be blinded by pride and arrogance, just as humans can."

Verley shook his head, confused. "You are making my case for me."

"I am not. If you allow me a chance, you will find I am not typical of the other Vulcans you have encountered. You will find I possess an understanding... an _appreciation_... of humans that most of my people do not share. However, if you choose NOT to allow me that chance, I will relieve you of your duties, and you will spend the rest of the war confined to your quarters."

Verley's eyes widened in shock. "You can't do that!"

"I can, and I will. I have already told you that I will not allow you to transfer from this ship. But I also cannot allow you to spread dissent and unrest as you did with Wageman and Ruck. If you cannot support my captaincy, confinement is your only alternative." T'Pol leaned forward to emphasize her point, "Chief Verley, you said one thing today with which I agree: we have a war to fight. This ship will be in that fight, with you, or without you. I would prefer it to be with you."

Chief Verley examined his hands, folded tightly on his lap. When he looked up, the belligerent expression was gone, replaced by a more thoughtful look. "I have never had a conversation like this with a Vulcan before. Maybe you're right. Maybe you are different. I suppose it's only fair to give you that chance you asked for."

T'Pol nodded. "Then you will be my LCPO?"

Verley nodded back, noting as he did so that he had never seen a Vulcan nod before. "Yes, ma'am. I'll be your Leading Chief."

"Very well. Your first task is to talk to Wageman and Ruck. You may tell them that I am not a coward; that I expect their full loyalty and obedience; and if I find they have spoken disrespectfully of me again, I will have them confined to the brig."

"Yes, ma'am. I can guarantee there will be no more talk from them like you overheard in the ship's office."

"Thank you. As for the station bill, Commander Tucker and I will make all officer assignments. However, I expect you to get with each of the Department Heads, except for Engineering, and advise them on the best use of their enlisted personnel. I have three lieutenants and five ensigns who could benefit greatly from your experience. I also expect you to monitor crew morale, and keep me advised of any problems. As LCPO, you will report directly to me." She paused and looked him directly in the eye. "Do we have an understanding?"

"Yes, ma'am. Your orders are clear."

"Then you are dismissed."

Verley stood, coming to attention. He stepped away from the chair, executed an about face, and strode smartly from the room.

#####

His interview completed, Ensign Keis left the small office, and T'Pol filled in the last officer positions on the station bill. If she had been human, she would have frowned. On a ship designed to be manned by nineteen officers, she had twelve, and of those twelve, none--save for herself and Trip--had any shipboard experience. It would take months to properly train this crew; she knew she would only be given weeks. She reviewed her assignments one last time before saving the changes:

**USS **_**CHOSIN**_** STATION BILL  
OFFICER ASSIGNMENTS**

Commanding Officer - **CDR T'Pol  
**First Officer - **CDR Charles Tucker** (LT Graham to perform admin tasks)**  
**Security Officer - **LT Mitchell Graham  
**Damage Control Officer - **CDR Charles Tucker  
**Disbursing Officer - **LT Marlene Westermeier  
**Personnel Officer - **LT Ross Sparano  
**LCPO - **CPO Doyle Verley**

Engineering Department - **CDR Charles Tucker  
** . . . Electrical Division - **ENS Fred Hoefler  
** . . . Hull Division - **ENS Fred Hoefler  
** . . . Propulsion Division - **ENS Luisa Saracco**

Operations Department - **Commander T'Pol  
** . . . Weapons Division - **LT Mitchell Graham  
** . . . Communications Division - **ENS Kathryn Walder  
** . . . Sensor Division - **ENS Brant Kousa**

Life Support Department - **LT Ross Sparano  
** . . . HVAC Division - **ENS Patrick Keis  
** . . . Water Division - **ENS Patrick Keis  
** . . . Hydroponics Division - **ENS Rudy Heath**

Supply Department - **LT Marlene Westermeier  
** . . . Mess Division - **ENS Tory Youn  
** . . . Stores Division - **CPO Daryl Overholtzer**

Medical Department - **PO1 Kandy Boryez**

Too many officers were double-slotted, but it was the best she could do with what she had. She blanked the display and stood to leave. It was 0854; six minutes before she would address the entire ship's company in the launch bay.

Stepping into the passageway, she found Wageman and Ruck standing outside, obviously waiting for her. They snapped to attention as the door closed behind her. "Yes?" she asked.

It was Petty Officer Wageman who spoke; "Captain, Crewman Ruck and I are here to apologize for the things we said down in the ship's office. We were out of line. I, uh, we want you to know it won't happen again."

"Did Chief Verley inform you of the consequences if it does?"

"Yes ma'am. In graphic detail, ma'am."

"Very well, your apology is accepted. I suggest you join the rest of the crew in the launch bay. I will be there shortly."

"Aye, ma'am."

T'Pol watched as they left. On the whole, she was pleased with the results of her first encounter with disgruntled human crewmen. _Five years ago, I would not have known how to handle this situation. I would have made things worse with my rigid Vulcan logic, and then blamed the humans and their lack of emotional control for my failure._ She took a moment to collect her thoughts, then followed Wageman and Ruck to the launch bay where her assembled crew awaited her.

#####

Trip was the last of the senior staff to arrive for the first of T'Pol's daily strategy sessions. He gave her a nod as he slid into a seat across the table from her. *Your senior staff isn't looking very senior,* he sent, looking around the tiny officer's wardroom at the other occupants. Of the nine people in the room, T'Pol, Trip, and Chief Verley were the only ones not in their twenties.

*They may lack experience, but they are eager to learn,* T'Pol responded. *We could certainly have done worse.*

Trip had to agree.

T'Pol took a measuring look around the table. In addition to Trip and Chief Verley, the remaining Department Heads were present (Lieutenant Westermeier from Supply, Lieutenant Sparano from Life Support, and Petty Officer Boryez from Medical), as well as Lieutenant Graham from Weps Div, Ensign Walder from Comm Div, and Ensign Koussa from Sensor Div. They gazed back, expectantly.

"Chief Verley has advised me that the station bill has been finalized and approved by all Department Heads and Division Officers. If this is not the case, you may inform me now," T'Pol said.

Lieutenant Westermeier tentatively raised her hand. "Uh, I'm not sure I approve, ma'am. One of my cooks was sent to Life Support, and I didn't get anybody in return. And he wasn't just any cook; he graduated top of his class from the Starfleet food preparation and handling course." Her expression left no doubt to everyone in the room of the magnitude of the injustice she had been forced to endure.

T'Pol lifted an eyebrow and turned her gaze on Verley. "Chief?"

"Yes ma'am." Verley's eyes flicked nervously from T'Pol to Lieutenant Westermeier and back. "That would be Crewman McCourtney. It turns out he was a licensed plumber before joining Starfleet. I felt he could contribute more as a pipe fitter than as a cook."

"Chief, why would a licensed plumber join Starfleet as a cook?" Trip asked, his curiosity getting the better of him.

Verley shrugged. "He said he wants to start his own restaurant when his hitch is up."

T'Pol looked back at her Supply Officer. "I must agree with Chief Verley. Crewman McCourtney will remain in Life Support until further notice."

Lieutenant Westermeier frowned, but offered no further protest.

"Are there any remaining issues with the station bill?" T'Pol asked. When no one spoke up, T'Pol addressed Verley, "Chief, please see that the final bill is posted and all hands are aware of their assignments."

"Aye, ma'am."

T'Pol moved on to the next item on her agenda. "I have just returned from the Fleet Commander's daily briefing. The war is not going well. Our best intelligence estimates give the Romulans a three-to-one advantage over the Coalition in number of warships." A stir went through the room at her words.

T'Pol continued her grim narrative. "Yesterday, the Tellarites lost an entire squadron of warships when they launched a hasty and unsupported attack on a Romulan colony. They were apparently using the war as an excuse to annex new territories. Their plan failed when they encountered a Romulan force roughly twice their size. To prevent a recurrence of this incident, Coalition governments are meeting to implement a unified command structure. The negotiations are quite... complex."

Trip snorted. "I'll bet they're complex; everyone wants to be in charge. This is something that should've been done BEFORE the war."

"You are correct," T'Pol agreed. "A preexisting agreement on a wartime chain of command would certainly have expedited matters."

"Politics," Trip muttered, in disgust. "Is there any good news?"

"Yes. The Klingons share a border with the Romulan Empire. The two have never been on friendly terms, so the Romulans are forced to commit a portion of their fleet to patrolling the Klingon border."

"Any chance we can bring the Klingons into the war?" Trip asked.

"Highly unlikely. The Klingons are hoping for a long, drawn-out conflict that will leave the Coalition AND the Romulans significantly weaker. That would leave them as the only major power in this sector."

There was an uncomfortable silence as T'Pol's words were digested by her staff.

"I was also advised at the briefing that Starfleet is planning an operation to reestablish contact with the four occupied colonies. I desire for _Chosin_ to be part of that operation." All eyes were riveted on her as she provided details of the plan: "A fast ship with a detachment of MACOs will be sent to each colony. The ship will make a single pass around the colony, the MACOs will perform an orbital insertion, and the ship will escape into deep space. Once on the ground, the MACOs will assess the situation, establish contact with any survivors, and transmit status reports back to Starfleet headquarters."

"Is _Chosin_ going to be one of those ships?" Lieutenant Graham asked, with barely restrained eagerness.

"Perhaps. I discussed the possibility with Admiral Chu. We need to be one of the first of the mothballed frigates to pass our space trials, and we need to be one of the fastest in those trials."

"No problem, then," Graham enthused, looking around, "We just have to be the first and the fastest."

"Um, excuse me, Captain," Trip said, from his end of the table. "Just how much time do we have?"

"Admiral Chu believes it will take three weeks to train the MACO detachments. He wants Starfleet ready to go when they are," T'Pol replied.

Trip winced. "Ouch."

"Can it be done?" T'Pol asked. She waited patiently while Trip considered his reply.

"Maybe," he admitted. "Just understand that none of the systems in engineering have ever been online before. We've got to test them all before we can even think about leaving space dock. If we encounter problems with ANY of our major systems, all bets are off."

He shook his head, just getting warmed up. "And because my engineers are so inexperienced, I have to take time away from whatever we're doing to train them. It really slows things down. And then there's the fact that the basic engine design is flawed to begin with."

That last got a reaction from T'Pol, as it was probably the only thing he'd said that she didn't already know. "In what way is the engine design flawed?"

"They built these ships using the same warp five technology I helped develop for the NX project. They are basically scaled-down versions of the _Enterprise's_ engines. It was a quick, cheap way to get something built in a hurry. But of course, warp fields don't scale in a linear fashion. The bottom line is that _Chosin's_ engines are overpowered for the mass of the ship. If we ever ran them at full power, the stresses would tear the ship apart."

"What is the highest speed we can attain? And what speed could we sustain for extended periods?"

"The way the engines are right now? Warp 4.8 max, 4.3 sustained."

"That is unsatisfactory."

Trip snorted derisively. "Tell me about it. Of course, I haven't had the chance to Tuckerize anything, yet."

"After you have sufficiently 'Tuckerized' the engines," T'Pol asked, a glint of amusement in her eyes, "what speed might we attain then?"

"Oh, warp 5.6, easy. Maybe even 5.8;" Trip said, nonchalantly.

T'Pol could not hide her astonishment. "That exceeds _Enterprise's_ top speed by a significant margin."

"Yes, it does," Trip said, oozing smugness, "but then, _Enterprise's_ engines aren't overpowered for her mass. I've been going over the plans, and I think I can put a feedback loop on _Chosin's_ warp coils that will add the same damping factor as a few thousand tons of extra mass. _Without_ the extra mass."

"An interesting concept," T'Pol mused. "How certain are you of it's feasibility?"

"I'd say ninety-five percent. It's the three weeks I'm not certain about."

T'Pol nodded, "Proceed with your plan. Keep me advised on your best estimate of our operational date."

"Aye, Captain. Are you sure you don't want to check my calculations?"

"That is not necessary. You are the most competent warp engineer I know."

Trip grinned at the compliment, and T'Pol addressed the rest of her staff, "I believe we have a good chance of being selected for this mission. I want a plan from each of you for making your section spaceworthy within three weeks. If you need assistance from Engineering for any hull or system modifications, see me first."

"Captain, Medical Department is probably the closest to being ready," Chief Verley pointed out. "It might make sense to let some of them help out in Engineering, even if all they're doing is running errands or handing out tools."

"Commander?" T'Pol asked, looking at Trip.

He nodded, "I'll take all the help I can get, even if they don't know a hyperspanner from a hypospray."

Petty Officer Boryez smiled at that. "I assure you, my corpsmen know what a hypospray is."

Chuckles erupted from around the room. "Petty Officer Boryez, do you have an objection to this proposal?" T'Pol asked.

"Yes, ma'am, a minor objection. It's true that my department will be functional in a couple of days, in that sickbay and the medical storeroom will be fully stocked with equipment and supplies, but that's not the whole picture. Are you familiar with the training medical corpsmen receive?"

"No," T'Pol admitted.

Boryez nodded, "Among other things, they are trained to stabilize the severely wounded until they can be transported to a ship or facility with a doctor. Corpsmen cannot treat major injuries by themselves. How likely do you think it is that in the heat of battle, we will always be able to transport our wounded to a doctor in a timely manner?"

"In my experience, it is highly unlikely," T'Pol replied. "What are you proposing?"

"I am not a doctor, but I was an O.R. nurse at Luna Base Hospital for six years before coming here. I've seen my share of blunt trauma, plasma burns, decompression injuries, and radiation exposure. I would like to get some additional imaging and surgical equipment so we can provide more comprehensive medical care. I would also like to teach my Corpsmen what I know of human physiology, and what I learned in the operating room. It might make a difference when we start taking casualties."

"You also need to study Vulcan physiology and the treatment of Vulcan injuries." Trip interjected.

T'Pol responded immediately. "No. There are forty-six humans on this ship and only one Vulcan. You will spend your available time learning to treat HUMAN trauma. Am I understood?"

Boryez nodded. "Yes, ma'am."

Trip's lips compressed in displeasure, but he said nothing.

*I am sorry, my love, but it is the only logical decision,* T'Pol sent.

Trip grudgingly agreed. *It is also the ethical decision, but that doesn't mean I have to like it.*

The meeting broke up shortly thereafter, Trip remaining behind as the others filed from the room.

"Was I sufficiently succinct-but-not-too-succinct?" T'Pol asked, after the wardroom had cleared.

"I'd say you were spot-on," Trip replied, "but never mind that. Tell me how your talk with Verley turned out."

"I believe I have convinced him that I am capable of commanding this ship. The crisis has been averted."

"So, I don't need to have a little chat with him or his cronies?"

"No, Trip. I certainly don't need any of the crew damaged by one of your 'little chats'. We are short-handed as it is."

"Ah, c'mon," Trip protested, "I wasn't going to hurt 'em, just scare 'em a little."

"That will not be necessary," T'Pol stated. "You should return to engineering; there is much to be done."

Trip arched his eyebrows in his best T'Pol imitation. "Indeed," he intoned.

**Continued in Chapter 8**


	8. Chapter 8

**Command**

**Author:** Transwarp

**Rating:** T (PG-13)

**Genre:** Action/Drama

**Disclaimer:** Paramount owns Star Trek names, and related intellectual property.

**Summary:** War breaks out with the Romulan Empire, and T'Pol assumes command of a Starfleet frigate. This is the third story in a series (order of stories: **'Commissioning'**, then **'Liaison'**, then **'Command'**).

**Note:** I revised this chapter based on a comment DinahD made in the previous chapter. She suggested that Starfleet would not waste an engineer as talented as Trip on a frigate. As soon as I read her comment, I realized it was true, and I felt compelled to address the issue in this chapter. Thanks, Dinah.

**EIGHT  
**_Chosin_, 7 April 2156

"I have three warp signatures, bearing sixty-three by twenty-seven relative. Two confirmed Romulan warbirds, one possible cruiser," Ensign Koussa intoned from behind his sensor station.

"Engines all stop." T'Pol commanded.

"All stop, aye," Helm responded.

T'Pol glanced over at Koussa. "Do you have a range and heading?" she asked.

"Range is fourteen light-hours. Still working on a heading, ma'am."

"Ensign Koussa, I require a heading," T'Pol said, after several uncomfortable moments.

"Yes ma'am, It's uh... heading is uh..."

"Weapons," T'Pol interrupted, turning to Lieutenant Graham at the Weapons station, "Can you give me a contact heading?"

"Oh!" Graham said, with a startled look. "Heading is... one zero four by twelve."

T'Pol looked back at Ensign Koussa, who was staring furiously at the indicators on his station. "Contact speed?" she asked.

"Uh... speed is... warp three point six eight nine."

"Computer, pause simulation," T'Pol said. "Ensign Koussa, You have just put this ship in severe jeopardy."

"Ma'am?" Koussa looked up, with a stricken expression.

"You conducted an active sensor scan of the Romulan vessels. It is the only way you could have determined their speed to three decimal places." She left her command chair and walked around to the sensor station. "What are my standing orders regarding sensors?" she asked.

Koussa turned pale as he answered. "Passive measures only, unless authorized by you."

"That is correct. By conducting an active scan, you revealed our position to a Romulan Cruiser and two escorts."

"I'm sorry, Captain," Koussa said, avoiding her gaze. "I--I forgot how to get the contact speed from passive sensors, so I sent a short sub-space pulse. I didn't think you'd notice."

"Ensign, These simulations are an opportunity for you to learn the proper operation of your station. If there is anything you do not know, you must ask. The simulation can be paused while I instruct you."

"Yes ma'am. I'm sorry, ma'am. I just didn't want to slow it down for everyone else. We've been at this for several hours, and I was hoping we could get all the way through at least one simulation."

"Do not concern yourself with that," T'Pol said. "I am more concerned with my bridge crew learning their jobs than I am with completing a simulation." She reached for the panel controls. "Watch what I do. I will show you two more methods by which you can determine contact speed with passive sensors."

"Yes ma'am." He stared intently at her hands, determined to learn.

She went step-by-step through both procedures, observing Ensign Koussa carefully for signs of confusion or lack of understanding, then she had him repeat the steps under her watchful gaze. Halfway through his second attempt at the less obvious method, T'Pol noticed Chief Verley entering the bridge. He stood quietly, waiting for her attention.

"Just a moment, Ensign," she said, turning to Chief Verley. Ensign Koussa appeared grateful for the opportunity to recall the next few steps while his Captain's critical regard was directed elsewhere. "Yes, Chief?" T'Pol inquired.

"Captain, there are four berthing compartments along the passageway to the armory on deck four. At our current manning levels, they are all unoccupied."

"Do you have an alternate use for that space in mind?"

"Yes, ma'am," Chief Verley said, nodding. "We can use it to store photonic torpedoes. Sixteen per room. That's another sixty-four mark 2 torpedoes, by my calculations."

"That would require extensive modifications to the spaces in question."

Chief Verley extended a PADD. "Modification work orders to convert the rooms into torpedo storage."

T'Pol glanced at the orders, then approved them. "We will also need sixty-four more torpedoes," T'Pol added.

Verley extended a second PADD. "Ordinance requisitions for sixty-four mark 2 mod 7 photonic torpedoes with variable yield antimatter warheads."

T'Pol approved those as well. "We will also need a means to get the torpedoes from the rooms to the armory," she said, handing the PADD back to him.

"Got it covered, ma'am. The cooks have a new General Quarters station. They'll be hauling torpedoes to the armory, in between making sandwiches."

"Very well," T'Pol said, "make sure the modifications are complete and the torpedoes on board before our space trials begin."

"Aye, Captain."

"Chief," T'Pol said, as Verley turned to leave.

He paused. "Captain?"

"Well done. You have significantly improved our combat endurance."

He grinned. "It's like my mama used to say: you can never have too many photonic torpedoes."

#####

"Do you have a minute, sir?"

Trip suppressed a sigh and looked up. Ensign Saracco stood in the doorway to his tiny office, waiting for permission to enter. _Like clockwork,_ he thought. _Just when I'm getting into the zone on this warp coil feedback design, another interruption._ "How about thirty seconds?"

Saracco looked doubtful, but dutifully nodded her head. "Whatever you can spare, sir."

"Whatcha got?"

She entered the office and sat across from Trip. "We've completed testing of the auxiliary control circuits. Next up on your list are the primary and alternate plasma intercoolers. We're supposed to test the overpressure vent manifolds, but we, uh, can't seem to find them. Sir."

Trip took the PADD from her hand and glanced at the schematic. "Right here," he said, planting a finger on the display. "One in each nacelle."

"Yessir, that's what the drawing shows, but they're not there."

"Are you sure?"

"Yes sir. I checked, myself."

"Okay then," Trip said, turning toward the terminal on his desk, "It's one of two things. They either forgot to put them in, or they put them somewhere else and forgot to update the drawings." He typed a string of commands into his terminal as he talked.

"Could they really forget something THAT major?" Saracco asked.

Trip smiled at her incredulous expression. "I had a friend on a repair tender," he related. "The USS Bogong. While she was in space dock for a major refit, my friend saw a dockworker wandering around the machine shop with a schematic in his hand and a confused look on his face. Turns out the guy was looking for a second machine shop. My friend told him there was only one, but the worker kept pointing at the bulkhead and saying it was on the other side, and asking how to get to it. Finally, my friend drilled a hole in the bulkhead and looked through. Sure enough, there was a fully-equipped machine shop on the other side. Someone read the blueprints wrong and didn't put in any doors."

"That story's so crazy it HAS to be true,' Ensign Saracco said, between chuckles.

Trip swiveled his terminal so Saracco could see the screen. "Here's something useful for you to know," he said. "You can look up scans of the as-built drawings, and see the changes made in the field. Look here..." He pointed to a section of the drawing.

Ensign Saracco's gaze followed his finger. She studied the drawing intently, then looked up at Trip.

"Well?" Trip prompted her.

"According to this drawing, they installed a single vent manifold inside the main hull, instead of two manifolds in the nacelles. They put it here, where the coolant feeds split between nacelles."

"Right. The problem is the final drawings were never updated after that change was made. I want you to send this as-built to BuShips so they can update the final drawings. After you've verified that the vent manifold is really there, of course."

"Yessir," Saracco said. She noted the filename of the drawing and saved it on her PADD. "I wonder if there are a lot of these discrepancies in the drawings," she mused.

Trip shrugged. "I've only found one other."

"Really? Where?"

"In the Captain's quarters. The drawing shows a double-sized shower, but they only installed a single. I can barely turn around in it." _Much less share a shower with T'Pol_, he added to himself.

"Should I send that in, as well?" Saracco asked.

"Don't bother," Trip replied. "It's not a critical system."

T'Pol chose that moment to arrive. She stood in the open doorway to Trip's office and waited for him to finish. "I'm just leaving, Captain," Saracco said, over her shoulder, "I'll be out of your way in a second."

"Stay," T'Pol said to her. Then she looked at Trip. "Commander, how long has Ensign Saracco been on duty?"

Trip glanced at the time and did a quick mental calculation. "A little over thirteen hours. Why?"

"How long have YOU been on duty?" she asked, pointedly.

"I... uh, I don't know," Trip replied, feebly.

"That answer is unacceptable. If you can monitor the duty hours of your subordinates, then you can do the same for yourself. For the record, you have been down here in engineering for twenty-two hours straight. That is too long." T'Pol turned toward Saracco. "Ensign, I have a task for you. You are to insure that Commander Tucker has left engineering within fifteen minutes. If he has not, I will hold you responsible." T'Pol turned on her heels and walked away, leaving a startled Ensign and a grinning Commander in her wake.

Saracco threw Trip a wide-eyed look. "The Captain seemed a little... agitated. Do Vulcans get agitated?"

Trip chuckled, reassuringly, "I'd say she's more frustrated than agitated. She's spent the last four days trying to train her bridge crew. I've had it easy, by comparison; both you and Hoefler are graduates of the Basic Warp Engineering course. The other officers have yet to take the Bridge Officer's course. The Captain has to teach them _everything_, and she has less than three weeks to do it."

Saracco nodded. "I heard Chief Verley talking about that with some people on the mess deck," she said.

"Oh, really?" Trip's casual words were belied by his suddenly rigid posture. _Has Verley been mouthing-off again?_ "What did he say?"

"He mentioned how green the bridge crew was, but said Captain T'Pol was whipping them into shape. Then he said, 'We've got us a Captain. A _hell_ of a Captain.' That's an exact quote."

_It seems T'Pol was right when she said her little talk with Verley went well_, Trip thought. Then he checked the time; "Oops, I'd better go," he said. "I sure don't want my Propulsion DivO in trouble with the Captain. You've got my list of systems to check; just keep working through it. If you run into something you can't figure out, skip to the next item. We'll deal with any problems in the morning. Goodnight, Ensign."

"Goodnight, Sir," Saracco replied. "And Commander?"

Trip paused in the doorway. "Yes?"

"For what it's worth, we've got us a hell of a Chief Engineer, too."

"Why, Ensign Saracco! I didn't have you pegged as a brown-noser."

"Anything to get ahead, sir."

#####

T'Pol stood at the conclusion of Admiral Chu's daily staff briefing, but was stopped by the Admiral before she could leave the room. "Commander T'Pol, a word with you please."

"Yes, Admiral." She turned back to where Admiral Chu waited, along with his Chief of Staff and Logistics Officer.

Captain Archer, who had been sitting next to her during the briefing, turned back as well. "Is everything okay, Admiral?" he asked, trying not to look concerned.

"I believe so," Admiral Chu replied, "Come join us over here, Jon. You might have something to contribute, knowing the Commander as well as you do."

Jon returned to T'Pol's side, exchanging a quizzical glance with her. She seemed as mystified by the Admiral's summons has he was.

Admiral Chu motioned toward his Logistics Officer. "I believe you know Commander Devlin? She has some questions for you, Commander T'Pol."

Commander Devlin consulted a PADD in her hand, then looked up at T'Pol. "I've been getting some unusual requisitions from your ship, Commander."

T'Pol arched an eyebrow but said nothing. This seemed to have an unsettling effect on Devlin, and Archer had to work very hard to suppress his amusement. He could well remember how discomfited he had been by that delicately arched eyebrow, the first few times it had been directed at him.

The Logistics Officer cleared her throat, and looked back down at her PADD. "Uh, for example, this requisition for thirty-five EV suits."

"Yes," T'Pol said, "I desire an EV suit for every crew member. I already have twelve. I need an additional thirty-five."

"Umm, _why?_"

"When _Enterprise_ was in the expanse, nine crew members died of asphyxiation resulting from hull breaches," T'Pol explained. "If they had been wearing EV suits, they would still be alive. Nine crewmen is a third of the casualties we suffered while fighting the Xindi. If I can reduce casualties by one-third simply by requiring EV suits to be worn during general quarters, then I will."

"There are drawbacks to your plan, Commander, as I'm sure you are aware," Admiral Chu pointed out. "Your crew's efficiency will be degraded by wearing bulky suits. And there's the fatigue factor to consider. Humans will tire quickly wearing such outfits."

"Yes, Admiral. I had considered those points, and I believe they can be overcome with sufficient training."

"Sufficient training?"

"Yes, sir. I believe my crew will become accustomed to working in the suits, once they have spent sufficient time in them."

Admiral Chu looked unconvinced, but did not press the issue. He glanced at Commander Devlin, and nodded for her to continue.

Devlin looked at the next item on her PADD. "There are requisitions for large quantities of medical supplies and additional surgical equipment. _Expensive_ equipment."

Captain Walker, Admiral Chu's Chief of Staff, chimed in on that one. "I've been in the sick bay of a _Dieppe_-class frigate, Commander. There is simply no room for all the medical items you've ordered. What are you going to do with it all? And who's going to use it? You don't have a doctor on board."

"I have gained adequate space by removing the forward bulkheads and expanding sickbay into adjoining crew's quarters. You are correct that I do not have a doctor, but my Chief Corpsman is an experienced operating room nurse, and is capable of using the equipment in question. It could mean the difference between life and death for casualties requiring immediate treatment."

Admiral Chu declined to comment, and Devlin pressed on to the next item. "I have requisitions for sixteen torpedo storage racks and sixty-four mark 2 photonic torpedoes."

"And just where are you going to put all these torpedoes?" Admiral Chu asked.

"In the crew's quarters along the passageway to the armory," T'Pol replied.

Admiral Chu shook his head in bemusement. "Commander T'Pol, where are you going to put your CREW?"

"Officers and senior enlisted are quartered two to a room. Junior enlisted will sleep in the launch bay. All the unused quarters have been converted to other uses."

The Admiral's eyes widened in surprise. "You're making your crew sleep in the launch bay? On the deck?"

"No, Admiral. I have purchased hammocks for them out of my own personal funds. They remove and stow them during the day, as well as during shuttlepod launch and recovery operations."

"They sleep in _hammocks._"

"Yes, sir. They are quite comfortable."

Chu cast a bewildered look at Captain Walker. "Have there been any complaints coming from _Chosin_?" he asked.

"I'm not aware of any," Walker replied, "but it won't surprise me to get some."

"Admiral, the concept to reuse the crew's quarters did not originate with me," T'Pol explained. "It started with the unoccupied rooms, then crewmen began to voluntarily relinquish their quarters to further combat readiness. I was initially reluctant to permit it, but my LCPO convinced me that the shared sacrifice was having a beneficial effect on crew morale."

"I see," Admiral Chu said. "So you have persuaded your crew to wear EV suits for hours at a time, sleep on hammocks in the launch bay, while simultaneously improving crew morale."

"Yes, sir."

Admiral Chu looked at Captain Archer and smiled. "Well, Jon, it appears you were right. We gave her a command, and she sure as hell surprised us."

Archer grinned back. "Just wait, sir. I can guarantee the surprises have only just begun."

"I can hardly wait." He turned to T'Pol, "Commander, I must applaud your resourcefulness and initiative. I will approve the medical requisitions, but there are problems with the others. Commander Devlin will explain."

Devlin nodded. "There is a shortage of EV suits and torpedoes," she said. "It might be a month or two before supply channels have adjusted to the increased demand. We can only give you half of the EV suits you've asked for, and just ten additional torpedoes."

"I will take whatever is available, and obtain the remainder later," T'Pol said. "Is that all, Admiral?"

"No, there is one more thing," Admiral Chu said. He nodded at his Chief of Staff. "Captain Walker?"

"I've heard from sources at BuShips that your Chief Engineer is making modifications to the engines that will significantly increase the speed of _Chosin_. Possibly as fast as warp 5.8."

Archer's eyes widened at that, and he cast an incredulous look at T'Pol.

"That is correct," T'Pol replied.

"He is evidently trying to introduce some negative feedback into the warp coils, to control the warp field and keep it from over-stressing the hull."

"That is correct."

"I'm told that BuShips has already tried that approach, but was unable to sufficiently stabilize fluctuations in the warp field."

"That is correct."

Walker waited for clarification, but none was forthcoming. "Sooo," he said, "how has Commander Tucker solved this problem?"

"Buships tried to modulate the field by controlling the power flow from the warp core to the nacelles. This did not allow them to make the rapid adjustments necessary. Commander Tucker will control field geometry more precisely by constricting power flow at various points in the nacelle warp coils. He is installing electromagnets that can immediately reduce the flow through a specific section."

Walker consider that carefully, then asked, "How will he get around the measurement issue? Warp field sensors aren't precise enough to detect the tiny fluctuations he is trying to control."

"He has decided not to directly measure the warp field. Instead, he is putting strain gauges at different points around the hull, and will calculate feedback from the stress readings."

"Ingenious," Walker said, nodding slowly. "_Very_ ingenious, actually."

"Yes. Commander Tucker has an unusual ability to simplify complex systems. He calls it 'thinking outside of the box', for reasons I have never been able to determine."

Walker chuckled at that. "Which brings me to my point. Commander Tucker's talents are wasted on _Chosin_. Starfleet needs him working his magic in the Bureau of Ships, where the entire fleet can benefit from his efforts."

T'Pol froze, firmly suppressing the feeling of panic that welled up inside her. _They are trying to take him from me!_ Her eyes narrowed as she fought the urge--born of her warlike Vulcan past--to protect her mate from this new threat.

Walker continued, oblivious to the effect of his words on T'Pol, "Of course, we will allow him to complete the modifications to _Chosin's_ engines while we search for a suitable replacement. In fact, we'll search for several candidates that you can select from. I think I can even get a team of engineers from BuShips temporarily assigned to help speed things up. How does that sound?"

T'Pol remained silent, her face a frozen mask. Archer watched, concern for his former First Officer clearly evident.

"Commander?" Captain Walker prompted, puzzled by her silence.

"I--I prefer he remain on _Chosin_," T'Pol said, in a quiet voice.

Captain Walker started to speak, but Admiral Chu silenced him with a slight motion of his hand. "I can understand your preference, but it's just not possible," Chu said, speaking firmly. "Starfleet needs him." He sighed, then continued in a more moderate tone. "We are all making sacrifices for the war effort. We have all left someone behind; wives, husbands, children, parents. _All_ of us, even our counterparts in the the Vulcan fleet. Why should you be the exception?"

The Admiral's simple question cut T'Pol to her very core, and the cold fear that gripped her heart was replaced by a wave of deep shame. Her eyes dropped to the table in front of her, and she struggled to control her voice. "I apologize, Admiral," she murmured, "I cannot expect preferential treatment for me or my husband. It will be as you say."

The Admiral nodded, satisfied by T'Pol's capitulation. He turned to Captain Walker, ready to have him prepare the transfer orders, but Captain Archer spoke up first.

"Excuse me, Admiral, but there may be extenuating circumstances you are not aware of," Archer said.

"I'm listening."

Archer gave a hasty explanation of Starfleet's reason for posting a married couple together in the first place, adding that it would not be wise to separate them.

Chu scowled as he digested the information from Archer. "So every seven years a Vulcan must mate, or risk death?"

Archer nodded. He shot a quick glanced at T'Pol, who had lifted her head and was staring intently at him. "Starfleet did not want to put them in a position where Commander T'Pol would be forced to mate with someone other than her husband in order to survive," he said.

"Well, that certainly changes things," The Admiral mused. "Commander, may I ask when you expect your next pon... pon..."

"Pon farr," T'Pol provided, her despair giving way to hope.

"Yes, pon farr. When do you expect the next one?"

T'Pol hesitated. _Only Trip and Phlox know that I will never enter pon farr_, she realized. _I can tell them it is imminent, and they will not know otherwise._ She opened her mouth to speak, but the words died in her throat. Hope died in that same instant, as she realized she could not do it. She could not dishonor the uniform she wore by lying to them, not even to remain with her k'diwa.

"Never," she murmured, after a lengthy silence. Her eyes were fixed on a spot on the far bulkhead.

"I'm sorry, did you say _never_?" Chu asked.

"Yes, Admiral," T"Pol replied in a dull voice, "I discovered last week that I will never enter pon farr, due to the strength of my mating bond with Tri--with Commander Tucker." A look of astonishment crossed Archer's face at T'Pol's revelation.

"Does Starfleet know this?" Admiral Chu asked.

"No. Only me, my husband, and Doctor Phlox."

"Then is there any reason not to reassign Commander Tucker to BuShips?"

T'Pol's eyes remained fixed on the bulkhead, and her voice was barely audible. "No."

"Very well, I will arrange for--"

"Admiral," Archer interjected, "if you don't mind, there are some questions I'd like to ask Commander T'Pol before you make a decision."

Admiral Chu nodded. "Go ahead," he said, in a tone that indicated he was unlikely to change his mind.

Archer glanced over at T'Pol while he took a moment to collect his thoughts. She had shifted her gaze from the far bulkhead; her eyes were now on him. "Commander, I've learned quite a bit about Vulcan culture over the past few years," Archer said, "but I've never heard that a Vulcan could avoid pon farr."

"Until last week, I had not either," T'Pol stated.

Archer's eyebrows shot up in surprise. "There are no others?"

"No, Captain. As far as I know, I am unique among living Vulcans. Doctor Phlox was able to find references to such cases in pre-Awakening literature, but even in ancient times it was exceedingly rare."

"And what did you say caused this, uh, this condition?"

"It appears to be a result of my bond with my husband."

Archer cast a significant glance at Admiral Chu, who was listening with great interest.

"What is it about your bond with Commander Tucker that is different?"

"Our _tel_, our mating bond, is much stronger than the norm among my people. That seems to be the reason I am spared the pon farr, although I am uncertain of the mechanism by which the two are linked."

Archer nodded. "The mechanism isn't important. What IS important is the bond itself, a bond unlike anything seen on Vulcan in over eighteen hundred years." Archer turned to Admiral Chu, "Admiral, Commander T'Pol and Commander Tucker have served together under my command since _Enterprise_ was launched. Individually, they are exceptional officers. Together, they are unstoppable. They magnify each other's strengths and minimize each other's weaknesses in a way I have never seen before. It would be a serious mistake to separate them."

Admiral Chu turned a thoughtful gaze on Commander T'Pol as he pondered Archer's words. "Commander, do you agree with that assessment? Would it be a mistake to separate you?"

"I can not say, Admiral. We do work well together, and my husband is a source of strength for me, as well as a source of advice and insight into the humans around me. For... for personal reasons, I would prefer that he stay on _Chosin_. However, it is not my choice, but yours, and I will abide by your decision."

Chu nodded, approvingly. "Captain Walker," he said to his Chief of Staff, "See that BuShips sends a liaison team to _Chosin_ to familiarize themselves with Tucker's modifications. Pushing those mods out to the fleet should keep BuShips busy for a while. In the meantime, I believe I will keep Commander Tucker on _Chosin_."

T'Pol briefly closed her eyes, her only outward reaction to the Admiral's decision. "Thank you, Admiral," she said.

"If you want to thank me, just get _Chosin_ ready to kick some Romulan ass. Based on your reputation, I'm expecting great things from you."

"_Chosin_ will be ready, Admiral. You may be assured that I will take every opportunity to 'kick Romulan ass' that presents itself to me."

Admiral Chu grinned, "I could not ask for more. Now, get back to your ship. I'm sure you have lots to do."

#####

Trip stood at the foot of the central ladders, and wished--not for the first time--that _Chosin_ had turbolifts. After two weeks of sixteen to twenty hour days, the three-deck climb back to his quarters seem to be getting longer and longer. He suppressed a groan, and started up the ladder. _It's only been two weeks_, he reflected, _but it feels like I've been doing this forever_.

The thought of a hot shower and warm bunk spurred him on. _Maybe I can wheedle a back-rub from T'Pol. Maybe even some neuropressure. Not that I'll have any trouble sleeping_.

T'Pol looked up from her terminal as Trip ambled wearily through the door to their quarters. An unknown Italian opera played softly in the background. _I liked it better when she went through her Louis Armstrong phase_, Trip thought. _At least I could understand the words_.

"Hey, darling," he said, greeting her with a quick peck on the cheek. "We got the last of the magnetic chokes installed on the warp coils today. That's three days ahead of schedule. Tomorrow I'll begin testing the feedback algorithm. Everything is on track for next week's space trials." He dumped a couple of PADDs on the desk for later reading.

"Your appearance is more disheveled than usual," T'Pol noted. Trip's uniform was covered with dark streaks, and oily smudges marred his face and hands.

He gave her a wan smile. "A power cap exploded while we were running a load test on the converters. It made quite a mess; electrolyte and cooling oil went EVERYWHERE. Petty Officer Mason was burned when hot oil splashed on him, but nothing serious--Boryez treated him, then released him for duty."

"The explosion caused a great deal of consternation among my bridge crew, as well," T'Pol said. "A combat simulation was running in which we were trying to evade a Romulan torpedo. Your capacitor exploded just as the torpedo was due to strike."

Trip chuckled, the chuckle turning into a full laugh as he imagined the startled expressions on the bridge when an imaginary torpedo caused a real explosion. "I'd have paid money to see that."

T'Pol parsed Trip's comment, evaluated the accompanying body language, and decided it was one of the myriad human figures of speech with which Trip sprinkled his conversation. If she had felt less pressed for time, she might have asked him to explain its meaning. Instead, she turned her attention back to the terminal and the nearly endless stream of bureaucratic forms and reports required of the Captain of a newly-commissioned vessel.

Trip headed for the shower, leaving a trail of dirty uniform items in his wake. He entered the shower, and stopped in his tracks. "T'Pol, have you been in here recently?" he said, poking his head back out the door.

"No, Trip. Is something wrong? And must you leave your clothing on the floor?"

"Don't worry, I'll pick it up later. Right now, you should come and take a look at this."

T'Pol got to her feet and joined Trip in the bathroom, her face the epitome of Vulcan inquisitiveness. In place of the single-unit shower that had been there that morning was a new, double-sized shower. A sheet of paper was taped to the door:

Courtesy of Engineering Department  
USS Chosin  
"The First and the Fastest"

"I did not authorize this modification," T'Pol said pointedly. "My instructions were that all engineering work orders be submitted to me for approval."

"Well, I didn't approve it, either."

"Then who is responsible?" T'Pol inquired.

"My guess would be Ensign Saracco," Trip replied. "Last week, I showed her how to look up the as-built drawings, and I mentioned a discrepancy in the drawings for the Captain's quarters. Looks like she took it on herself to fix it."

"You must speak with her concerning the importance of following procedure. I have prioritized all the work orders to ensure essential modifications are not left undone. A larger shower in the Captain's quarters is NOT a priority."

"T'Pol, just hold your horses and try not to go off half-cocked, here." Trip said.

"Are you speaking English?" T'Pol asked, after a lengthy pause.

"Well, sort of," Trip said, a lop-sided grin on his face. "It means wait and get the whole story before you act."

"Reasonable advice, although I do not see how horses enter into it."

"I'll explain later," Trip said, "For now, you need to understand that these modifications were not on any of the work schedules I approved. Which tells me they were done after-hours, in the work team's free time."

"Trip, the crew is working sixteen hour days. They have very little free time. They should be resting, not installing unnecessary luxuries for their Captain."

"T'Pol, you're missing the point. It was their FREE time. They CHOSE to install the shower; nobody made them. Think of it as a gift, from them to us."

T'Pol considered Trip's words, then rejected them. "It is inappropriate for the Captain to receive gifts from the crew."

Trip sighed. "Yes, normally that is correct, but this is... this is different."

"I fail to see the difference."

"You're just gonna have to trust me on this one. Or, if you prefer, I'll write a work order to re-install the old shower."

"That would not be logical. It would just compound the original error."

Trip shook his head. "You really can't see it, can you. You have no idea what this means."

"Apparently not. Perhaps you should inform me."

"It means you have earned the crew's respect, otherwise they would not have taken the time or trouble to do this. This is their way of showing their respect for you, and their pride in this ship."

"I have sensed that the crew is becoming a cohesive unit, and it is happening much faster than I expected. You believe this is an indication of that cohesion?"

"I know it is."

"Then I will accept their gift. Should I publicly express my gratitude?"

"Nah, that wouldn't fit your style. You should quietly thank Ensign Saracco, and let her spread the word."

"I will speak with her in the morning."

"Okay, but before you do, we should check that the shower actually works. I propose a test to verify proper function."

T'Pol began shedding her own uniform. "I believe that would be the prudent course of action."

#####

T'Pol stood beside Chief Verley and surveyed the crates containing fifty-four photon torpedoes and seventeen EV suits stacked neatly in the spacedock cargo bay. "I was told our requisition for torpedoes is back-ordered," T'Pol said.

"That's true, Captain," Verley replied. "The order for mark 2 torpedoes **is **back-ordered, but these are the old mark 1's. They're not as capable, but Starfleet has a warehouse full of them. I figure it's better to have torpedoes that are slower, less accurate, and lower yield than to have no torpedoes at all."

"That is a logical assessment."

Verley grinned, "I'm glad you agree. I had no trouble getting these, since it costs more to upgrade them than it does to build a mark 2 from scratch. Nobody else wants them."

"And what of the EV suits? How did you come by those?"

"It seems most of the other ships in our squadron feel they can spare one or two suits from their inventories. I just arranged for some creative trades," Verley said, smugly. "Nothing illegal or immoral, mind you. I can give you the details, if you wish."

"Commander Tucker has advised me not to inquire too closely into the specifics of your supply dealings. I believe I will heed his advice."

Chief Verley chuckled, then said, "With your permission, I'll get a work party started uncrating and stowing these on board."

T'Pol nodded, but made no move to leave.

"Is there something else, ma'am?" Verley asked.

"How many more mark 1 torpedoes are available, Chief?"

"I don't know exactly. Several hundred, I'd guess."

"I want as many as we can fit into our cargo hold."

Verley whistled. "I'll get right on it."

"Also, have the torpedo techs report to me after these are stowed. I have some modifications to the guidance systems in mind that I wish to discuss with them."

"Aye, Captain."

"Thank you, Chief. I'll be on the bridge if you need me."

Chief Verley watched as T'Pol headed back to the ship. _A cargo hold full of torpedoes_, he thought, with satisfaction. _We are definitely going to get the Romulans' attention._

**Continued in chapter 9**


	9. Chapter 9

**Command**

**Author:** Transwarp

**Rating:** PG-13

**Genre:** Action/Drama

**Disclaimer:** Paramount owns Star Trek names, and related intellectual property.

**Summary:** War breaks out with the Romulan Empire, and T'Pol assumes command of a Starfleet frigate. This is the third story in a series (order of stories: **'Commissioning'**, then **'Liaison'**, then **'Command'**).

**NINE  
**_Chosin_, 18 hours from Pearl Haven, 8 May 2156

Trip paused at the door to main engineering and took a last look around before retiring for the night. Everything was in order, as he knew it would be. The steady thrum of the warp core and the hiss of the plasma injectors assured him of that. Every system was running at peak efficiency. Every component had been checked and double-checked. After weeks of training and drills, the engineering crew functioned as a well-oiled machine. Chosin's engines and her engineers were as battle-ready as Trip could make them. Still, his restless mind probed for one more enhancement, one more tweak.

He shook off the urge and continued through the door, making the familiar three-deck journey back to his quarters.

The flickering glow of a single candle was the only illumination in the room when Trip arrived. He gently closed the door to avoid disturbing T'Pol, who sat cross-legged on a mat, deep in meditation, an opera playing softly in the background. He sagged onto their bunk with an appreciative sigh.

"I am surprised to see you back from engineering this early. It is the first time I did not have to order you to leave."

Trip glanced at T'Pol. She had not moved, but her eyes were now open. They glinted softly in the candlelight, and he took a moment to drink in the sight. "This may be hard for you to believe, but I actually ran out of things to do," Trip replied. "How did your tour of the ship go?"

"As you suggested, it appeared beneficial for the crew to see their Captain on the eve of battle."

"I know my engineers appreciated you coming down to talk with them. They're ready to face the Romulans. Even eager." Trip shook his head, gently. "They don't have a clue what's coming."

"They do not," T'Pol agreed. "They _can_ not."

"But _I_ can," Trip said. "We're facing three times what we encountered at Azati Prime. We'll be flying right into a hornet's nest."

"This time we will have the element of surprise," T'Pol reminded him, gently. She had never seen a hornet, but she appreciated the metaphor.

"I know," Trip replied, "and we'll have the countermeasure drones. And two more torpedo launchers than Enterprise had. And twice as many phase cannons. And we're a smaller target, and we're faster and more agile. I know all that. You've put together a good plan, but no plan survives initial contact with the enemy."

"You are troubled," T'Pol said, sensing turmoil through the bond. She rose to her feet in a single fluid motion, and joined Trip on the bed.

Trip sighed, "Yeah, I'm troubled. I've been reading pre-Awakening Vulcan literature. I just finished a story called 'The Prefect of Tat'sahr'. You ever heard of General Volar and Lady T'Kom?"

"No."

"Volar was a peasant who rose through the ranks and became a General. He was one bad-assed dude, and pretty handy with a lirpa. He caught the eye of the Prefect's daughter, Lady T'Kom, and they were married after a clandestine romance. Against the wishes of the Prefect, I might add. This was a major no-no, and the Prefect had Volar arrested, and--"

T'Pol interrupted. "Trip, does this story have a point?"

"Well, yeah. In the story, Volar and T'Kom were k'hat'n'dlawa, like us. Volar was executed by the Prefect, and T'Kom went mad at the moment of his death. She hurled herself from the highest tower of G'ral Keep."

"I see. You are concerned that I will do the same, if you are killed?"

"Yes. This seems to be a common theme in the stories I've read. The stronger the bond between husband and wife, the more likely one will not survive the death of the other. You cannot deny that our bond is _strong_."

"No, my love, that cannot be denied. However, you worry needlessly." T'Pol placed a comforting hand on Trip's shoulder. "Remember, you were taken from me after fourteen years in Lorien's time-line, yet I did not kill myself or go mad."

Trip considered that for several moments. "But in that time-line, you had Lorien. If I die tomorrow, you will have no one."

"That is not true. I will have my duty to this ship, and to my crew. I will not let them down, no matter what may happen to you. No matter how strongly I might wish to join you in death." T'Pol looked away, avoiding Trip's searching stare. "I... I had to assure myself that I could endure your loss--that I could give the order that would _result_ in your loss--before I would allow myself to accept this command. To do otherwise would be a disservice to my crew and a violation of my oath."

Trip tried to put himself in T'Pol's position, tried to imagine himself giving an order that would lead to T'Pol's death, but he failed. He couldn't imagine living with the consequences of such an order: the crippling loss of his bond-mate. Nor could he imagine living with the self-hatred and loathing if he _failed_ to give the order and others died in her place. _She is strong_, he thought, _much stronger than me_.

He reached out and gently turned her head so their eyes met. "Do you know how proud I am of you?" he asked.

T'Pol did not reply, but Trip knew he had said the right thing. If the unthinkable happened, and T'Pol was forced to choose a course of action that resulted in his death, she would remember this moment and it would give her some measure of comfort. It was the best he could do.

"Are you done meditating?" he asked. "I can be quiet if you need to finish."

"I am done."

"Good," Trip pulled her into an embrace, kissing her gently on the forehead, "because I'm just getting started."

"Are you sure this is wise, Trip? I have scheduled reveille for 0400 tomorrow. You need rest."

"I need _you_ more," he murmured, nibbling on her ear.

Something ancient and untamed stirred deep within T'Pol, and she felt herself responding to the desire of her mate. With a soft growl, she grasped his head between her hands, guiding his mouth to hers.

Trip returned her kisses with equal ardor, one hand unzipping the front of his uniform, the other clasping the nape of her neck. He was attempting to wriggle one arm free of its sleeve, his lips never leaving hers, when the door chime sounded.

Trip groaned, collapsing back on the bed. "Now what?"

T'Pol punched the comm panel. "Yes."

"Major Delvecchio to see Captain T'Pol," came the reply through the speaker.

T'Pol glanced at Trip, who stared back with pleading eyes. *I am sorry, my love,* she sent, *I must speak with him.*

*Then speak quickly,* Trip suggested.

She gave him a pointed look, waiting.

With a heavy sigh he pulled himself into a sitting position and zipped his uniform closed.

T'Pol went to the door and thumbed it open. "Come in, Major."

Major Delvecchio entered the room and stood at attention. He was aware of Starfleet's relaxed military culture, but as a point of pride, chose to conform with MACO standards. "Captain T'Pol, you're going to have a guest on the trip back to Earth," he stated.

"At ease, Major. Please explain."

Delvecchio assumed a less rigid posture. He glanced over at Trip, sitting comfortably in the Captain's stateroom, on the Captain's bed, and was reminded of their marital status. A look flitted across his face--only for an instant--but it was a look Trip had seen many times before from other men. Not disapproval or disgust (although he had seen his share of those), but estimation and appraisal. Trip's woman was alien and exotic. At a subconscious level, and quite involuntary, Delvecchio wondered what he might be missing, and whether he should be envious.

The moment passed, and Delvecchio was once more the professional soldier. He returned his attention to T'Pol, "My MACO's have just completed their pre-drop equipment checks, and Corporal Blanchard found a problem with his reentry suit. These suits are custom-fitted. We carry no spares."

"Can the suit be repaired?"

"No, ma'am. There's a flaw in the suit's thermal shield. It's small, but the extreme temperatures and pressures of reentry are not very forgiving. The risk of suit failure is too great."

"I see," T'Pol said. "So Corporal Blanchard will not be able to perform the orbital insertion with your detachment. What impact will that have on the mission?"

"It will have minimal impact," Delvecchio declared, with some pride. "My MACO's are all cross-trained in multiple roles. I am more concerned with finding something for Corporal Blanchard to do on _Chosin_. It's a two week trip back to Earth; I'd like for him to be gainfully employed during that time."

"Have him see Chief Verley. He will find him a suitable assignment."

"Thank you, Captain."

"Is there anything else?" T'Pol asked.

"Yes ma'am. Being aboard _Chosin_ has been an eye-opening experience for my team. They've seen your crew busting their butts getting ready for this mission, and it's given them a new appreciation for Starfleet."

*'Busting their butts' means working very hard,* Trip sent to T'Pol, by way of being helpful.

*I surmised as much,* she replied, with a hint of amusement. Her eyes never left Delvecchio's face, nor did her expression change.

Delvecchio continued, oblivious to the brief exchange, "They are also aware that the most dangerous part of this mission for _Chosin_ is the egress from the system. I'm no space tactician, but I've seen the intelligence summaries, and you're going to have your hands full getting away in one piece."

"We have some unpleasant surprises for the Romulans up our sleeves," Trip interjected, a nasty grin on his face.

"I'm aware of some of those surprises," Delvecchio said, grinning back. Indeed, his men had been drafted on several occasions for working parties in the cargo bay, uncasing, moving, and restacking the massive Mark 1 torpedoes under the watchful eyes of the torpedo technicians. His demeanor turned serious again, "I hope it's enough."

"We have taken all available measures to ensure success," T'Pol stated. She noted the human propensity for invoking vague concepts such as hope, although she had come to recognize it for what it was: a statement of solidarity and support.

Delvecchio nodded. "Your crew has earned our confidence, Captain. My team's initial image of Starfleet was colored by Starfleet's non-combat orientation, but they have come to realize that Starfleet is every bit as professional as the MACOs. They respect that." He paused, his glance shifting from T'Pol to Trip while he considered whether to voice his next thought. He forged ahead, in his blunt MACO fashion. "They had a harder time coming to terms with a Vulcan captain."

"I cannot help them with that," T'Pol said, calmly.

"No need to, ma'am, I took care of it. I convinced them that Vulcan honor would not allow you to put on a Starfleet uniform, unless you were one-hundred percent committed to Earth. You had their full loyalty the instant they were assured of yours."

"That is an unusual insight on your part," T'Pol observed.

"For a human, you mean?" Traces of a sardonic smile graced his lips.

"Yes," T'Pol said, "It is rare to find a human with any understanding of Vulcan morality."

"In the interests of full disclosure, I should tell you that Major Stanfield was a close friend of mine. We went through OCS together, he was the best man at my wedding, and I'm his children's God Father."

Trip and T'Pol both recognized the name. Major Stanfield was the former Commander of _Enterprise's_ MACO detachment, and had died with four of his men during the _Ki'Vaar_ rescue mission.

Delvecchio continued, "I was envious when he received orders to _Enterprise--i_t's a highly-prized assignment. We talked at every opportunity about his experiences there. Among other things, I asked him what it was like serving with a Vulcan officer. He always spoke highly of you, Captain. In fact, I specifically requested that my team be assigned to _Chosin,_ based solely on his opinion."

"Major Stanfield was an excellent officer," T'Pol said, in a quiet voice, "I grieved at his death, and the death of his men."

Delvecchio nodded. "Thank you, Captain. I appreciate that." He was silent for a moment, before speaking again, "If there's nothing else, I'll get back to my team."

"I have nothing else."

Delvecchio turned to leave, then paused and looked at Trip. "Donizetti?"

A confused look crossed Trip's face. "Excuse me?"

"The music. I believe it's Donizetti," Delvecchio repeated.

"You are correct," T'Pol said, "Gaetano Donizetti, from L'Elisir d'Amore."

Delvecchio's eyes grew wide. "I apologize, ma'am. I assumed Commander Tucker was the opera aficionado."

Trip snorted. "Not me, I'm more the country-western type."

"No apology is necessary, Major," T'Pol said, "Your assumption is quite understandable, given that very few Vulcans listen to human music."

"Captain, if you don't mind my asking, how is it you discovered opera?"

The gleam in Delvecchio's eyes told T'Pol that she had uncovered one of his human passions, and that he was eager to share it with her, one aficionado to another. Under other circumstances, she might have indulged him, but the memory of Trip's passion was still fresh in her mind. "Major, I cannot speak of this now. I have much to do before morning." Her statement, while strictly true, was somewhat misleading, implying as it did that her remaining tasks were official in nature.

Delvecchio took the hint and gracefully exited the stateroom. Once the door had closed behind him, Trip began moving toward T'Pol, the fire rekindled in his eyes.

T'Pol stopped him short with a restraining hand on his chest. "You were experiencing some difficulty removing your uniform earlier. Perhaps you require my assistance."

Trip grinned at T'Pol's lame attempt at humor, but played along with it, "Darlin', feel free to help me out of my clothes anytime you want."

"If that is your wish, I shall oblige," T'Pol said. She launched an immediate surprise attack on his uniform. The uniform lost.

#####

"Captain's on the bridge." Lieutenant Graham relinquished his seat in the Captain's chair as T'Pol approached, moving to his weapons station.

T'Pol gave the chair's displays a cursory glance and saw no obvious problems. "Status?" she asked, looking up.

"We're sixty-four light-hours from Pearl Haven, heading 216 by neg 12 at warp two. ETA at present course and speed is eight hours. Normal wartime cruising, no activity on sensors, all systems green."

"Thank you, Lieutenant." T'Pol activated the comm panel in her chair arm, "T'Pol to Lieutenant Westermeir."

"Westermeir here, Captain."

"Have all hands had an opportunity to eat breakfast?"

"Yes, ma'am. Everyone's eaten. I closed the serving line ten minutes ago. I've got the cooks making sandwiches for lunch now, since the mess deck will be closed when we go to general quarters. Uh, any particular type of sandwich you'd care for, ma'am?"

The question took T'Pol by surprise. "Peanut butter will be satisfactory."

"No jelly?"

"No jelly."

"Anything else, Captain?"

"No. Carry on, Lieutenant."

"Aye, ma'am."

T'Pol closed the comm link with her supply officer, then glanced over over at Graham. "Lieutenant, have you reviewed this morning's sensor logs?" Passive sensors were prone to anomalous readings, especially at long ranges. Most could be attributed to background noise, but it was prudent to have a human check to make sure the computerized filters hadn't missed anything important.

"Ri, Khart-lan," Graham answered. _No, Captain._

T'Pol did not reply as she considered Graham's words. Khart-lan. Vulcan for captain. "Lieutenant, why do you address me thus?"

Graham was grinning broadly, but his grin faded as T'Pol's cool regard turned his way. He looked around the bridge, seeking support from his fellow officers, who had suddenly become very interested in their status displays. "We, uh, we decided that a Vulcan captain needs a Vulcan title... No disrespect intended, ma'am."

"We? Others are involved?"

"Yes, ma'am. The entire bridge crew." He gave them all pointed looks, daring them to disagree.

_They find this amusing_, T'Pol realized, recognizing the familiar signs of Earth humor. As such, it was something to be encouraged. Few things could relieve human stress as effectively as humor. "Very well, Ot-lan."

Graham's grin returned, wider than before.

#####

_Chosin_ crept along at warp two, drawing ever closer to her objective. Her sensors tracked no fewer than fourteen Romulan vessels, patrolling in widely dispersed patterns around Pearl Haven. The Romulans were easy to see, making no attempt to hide as they actively radiated in all directions on multiple subspace and electromagnetic frequency bands.

"We're twenty-two light-hours from Pearl Haven, Khart-lan," the helm called out, "approaching waypoint alpha."

"Thank you, crewman," T'Pol said. "Engines all stop."

"All stop, aye."

"Ensign Koussa, is there any sign we have been detected?"

"No, ma'am."

She opened a channel to the cargo hold, "T'Pol to Chief Verley."

"Verley here, Captain."

"Deploy the first twenty torpedoes."

"Aye, Captain."

Verley and _Chosin's_ three torpedo techs were in the cargo hold wearing EVA suits. The suits were a necessity, since the hold's air pressure was as close to zero as the ship's air pumps could get it. Arrayed in neat rows around them were the eighty-eight mark 1 torpedoes Chief Verley had procured. They had all been modified by the torpedo techs to receive commands over a wireless link--a requirement, because they would never find themselves in a torpedo tube with a hard-wired command channel.

"Opening outer doors," Verley intoned, over his suit's comm channel. The large, air-tight cargo doors swung outward, and any traces of atmosphere remaining in the hold were released to the hard vacuum of space.

"Doors are open." Verley said.

The senior torpedo tech bent over the warhead of the torpedo closest to the open cargo door. He did something inside an access panel, then closed the panel and stood back. "Torpedo One is armed," the tech said. "Verify data link."

On the bridge, Graham checked that the torpedo was receiving and responding to commands from his tactical console. "Data link is active. Placing Torpedo One on stand-by." Every torpedo had a unique ID code, but for simplicity they were numbered one through eighty-eight. To facilitate identification, the numbers had been scrawled on the nose of each torpedo with a permanent marker.

Numbers weren't the only things scrawled on the torpedoes; the proximity of permanent markers to humans was enough to guarantee that. The torpedoes were covered with messages from the human crew to their Romulan adversaries. Most were simple slogans and crude vulgarities: 'Earth sends her regards'; 'Eat shit, Rommie bastards'; 'Sneak-attack THIS'.

A few were quotes and literary references. One of Petty Officer Boryez's corpsmen had somehow found the time to write Shakespeare's Saint Crispin Day's speech from _Henry V, _in its entirety, on the side of one torpedo.

Even T'Pol had participated. Late one night, she entered the deserted cargo bay and inscribed a message on Torpedo One in flowing Vulcan script, signed in English.

W_uh'rakong dan-braxong  
_CDR T'Pol  
_USS Chosin  
_Commanding

She told no one what she had done, but it was common knowledge before breakfast the next day. Crewmen made special trips to the cargo hold just to see it for themselves. Ensign Walder, in her capacity as Communications Officer, was called upon to translate the Vulcan text. To the delight of the crew, she determined it was _Chosin's_ unofficial slogan: _The first and the fastest._

Not to be outdone, Trip left a message of his own, written directly beneath T'Pol's, in his neat engineer's hand:

What she said.  
CDR Charles Tucker III  
_USS Chosin_  
Chief Engineer

Verley and the three techs grabbed the first torpedo, two to a side, and walked it awkwardly to the door, where they sent it sliding into space. "Torpedo One deployed," Verley said, as he watched it drift away.

The operation was repeated for the next nineteen torpedoes, after which Verley closed the outer doors. The four left the cargo hold and gratefully removed their EV suits. Meanwhile, _Chosin_ resumed her cautious approach at warp two, leaving a small cloud of torpedoes tumbling in her wake. The entire evolution took less than fifteen minutes.

#####

Another hour passed, and _Chosin_ drew to within fourteen light-hours of Pearl Haven. Ensign Koussa looked up from his sensor station, "Captain, we're being scanned by contact romeo-five. They've found us." Romeo-five was the tracking ID given to the fifth Romulan vessel _Chosin_ had detected. She was an escort-class warbird, individually no match for _Chosin_ in a fight. Unfortunately, she would not be fighting alone--there were thirteen other Romulan ships, and romeo-two, romeo-seven, and romeo-ten were all cruisers.

T'Pol caught Graham's eye, "Lieutenant, sound general quarters." The GQ alarm's jarring tone rang through the ship, and crewmen clambered into their EV suits. Anticipating the alarm, most of the crew were already at their assigned battle stations. The few that were not quickly joined them.

"Helm, go to warp five," T'Pol directed.

"Warp five, aye." A shudder went through the ship as _Chosin_ leapt forward, an eager racehorse finally given her head.

"Deploy ten countermeasure drones, Lieutenant," T'Pol ordered.

"Deploying drones." Graham sent a command from his weapons station, and ten latches opened on the outer hull, releasing ten of the twelve countermeasure drones that _Chosin_ carried. The drones were small devices, twice the size of a photonic torpedo, and designed to act as decoys, appearing to enemy sensors as full-sized ships. They were quite effective at ranges exceeding a few light-hours.

The ten countermeasure drones engaged their own warp engines, and emerged from _Chosin's_ warp field on diverging courses. To Romulan sensors, it appeared as if eleven Starfleet frigates were bearing down on them.

"Drones deployed, all systems green."

T'Pol had already confirmed this from her own command display, but still insisted on verbal updates from her bridge crew. "Helm," she said, "make course 179 by neg 18."

"179 by neg 18, aye."

"Increase speed to warp 5.5"

"Warp 5.5, aye."

A frown creased Graham's brow at T'Pol's orders, "Ma'am, that course takes us away from Pearl Haven. And at warp 5.5 we'll out-run our drones."

"That is correct, Lieutenant." T'Pol said. Graham's look of confusion grew, prompting an explanation from T'Pol. "What would you presume if an approaching enemy vessel launched a series of decoys, and one of them veered away from the others at increased speed?"

A slow smile replaced the confused look. "I would think it was a malfunctioning decoy, and ignore it."

"I believe the Romulan Commander will reach a similar conclusion."

In fact, that was what happened. The bridge crew watched with delight as all fourteen Romulan ships set courses to intercept the trailing drones, completely ignoring _Chosin_. T'Pol estimated she had three minutes before the Romulans discovered they'd been tricked, but by then, she would be in position for an unopposed run at the planet.

"All battle stations manned and ready, Captain," Graham reported. Almost two minutes had passed since the GQ alarm sounded. This would have been an abysmally poor time on a typical Starfleet vessel, but T'Pol had allotted extra time for the crew to don EV suits.

"Very well," she acknowledged, then keyed the MACO command channel. "T'Pol to Major Delvecchio."

"Go ahead, Captain."

"We are six minutes from the objective."

"Roger. We're good to go down here."

T'Pol heard the bridge door open, and looked around to see the suited figure of Chief Verley step through. He was one of only three people on board who did not have a designated battle station (the other two being Trip and T'Pol), and he typically took a swing through the ship before coming up to the bridge. He paused to make sure he wasn't interrupting anything, then approached the command chair.

T'Pol switched to Verley's private suit channel. "Status?" she asked.

"The crew's ready. You've trained them well, Khart-lan."

T'Pol lifted an eyebrow. "Is the entire crew involved in the 'Khart-lan' joke?"

"No, ma'am, not yet, anyway. I was monitoring the bridge channel from the cargo hold, so I heard the whole thing. I suspect it will be all over the ship before the day's out. Stuff like that gets around quick."

"How is the crew doing?"

"They're nervous," Verley admitted. "Scared, even. I think the only ones on board who aren't are the MACOs. And you."

"You are scared?" T'Pol asked.

"Yes, ma'am," he confirmed, grinning. "I can read a tactical display. I know what we're up against."

"The numerical odds are daunting," T'Pol agreed, "but there is a high likelihood that _Chosin_ will survive this engagement."

Verley gave T'Pol an intense look. He would have discounted her statement as mere bravado, had she been human. But she was Vulcan, and she meant what she said literally. She believed the ship would survive, and he found her calm certainty strangely comforting.

"Where do you want me, Captain?" he asked, getting down to business.

"I would like you in the launch bay while the MACOs drop. Return to the bridge once they are gone."

"Aye, ma'am." He left, and T'Pol turned her attention back to the tactical situation.

Ensign Koussa looked up from his sensor station, "Captain, two escorts have changed course. Romeo-two and six are on intercept vectors for _Chosin_. Time to intercept is three minutes."

"The Romulan Commander is getting suspicious," T'Pol remarked. "Lieutenant Graham, we must destroy both vessels on the first pass. The MACO's cannot make their drop while we are engaged with the enemy."

"No pressure there," Graham muttered.

"As soon as we have reached extreme range, I want you to open fire with all phase cannons. Hits are unlikely at that range, but we have power to spare. Continue firing until both targets are destroyed. Be prepared to salvo all four torpedo tubes on my command, two targeting each escort, warheads on maximum yield. Be prepared to launch a second salvo if required, also on my command."

"Aye, Captain." Graham responded.

"Ensign Koussa, immediately after Lieutenant Graham begins firing, you will commence full-power active scans of the Romulan vessels. Burn through their countermeasures and provide accurate targeting data to our fire control systems."

"Aye, Captain."

T'Pol's next instructions were directed at the helmsman. "Petty Officer Trinh, on my command you will drop from warp and steer a course directly toward the lead Romulan ship at half impulse. Make a single pass of both vessels at a range of two light-seconds. If both vessels are not disabled or destroyed, we will continue maneuvering until they are. At that point, I will instruct you to resume course for the orbital insertion."

"Aye, ma'am."

"Ensign Walder, as soon as we open fire, I want you to break communication silence and open a data link with Second Fleet G2. Forward a steady stream of sensor data. If something happens to us, the data from this engagement will be invaluable."

"Aye, Captain."

"Are there any questions?"

There were none.

"You all have your instructions. I am confident of your ability to carry them out. Remember your training and we will make it through this." T'Pol's words had a calming effect on the bridge crew, or perhaps it was her unruffled demeanor. In either case, tensions eased noticeably as everyone focused on their assigned tasks.

T'Pol monitored her displays as the two Romulan vessels closed on _Chosin's_ position. *Trip, be prepared for large power demands on the converters. The phase cannons will be firing almost continuously, and I expect engines and hull-plating will be stressed as well.*

*No problem, darling. Both converters are on-line and purring like kittens. We can take whatever you throw at us; we're ready down here.*

*I am sure of that, my love.*

Any response Trip might have had was preempted by Graham's excited voice, "Romulans are in range, Captain, commencing fire," followed immediately by the shrill discharge of all six phase cannons.

"Commencing active scans," Koussa added.

Walder followed Koussa with an update of her own, "Breaking comm silence, opening data channel."

Several seconds of silence passed, then Ensign Koussa lifted his head, "A hit! Optical sensors show a hit on romeo-six. Scanning for indications of damage. Damn good shooting, Mitch."

Graham grinned, but never looked up from his weapons console. "A hit, huh? What are the odds."

"Approximately point zero two," T'Pol answered, "given the range, the number of cannons, and each cannon's circular error probability. It is still good shooting, Lieutenant."

His grin broadened. All the while, phase cannon fire continued unabated.

"Helm, drop from warp. Go to half impulse."

"Leaving warp, half impulse, aye," Petty Officer Trinh responded, "Steering course 291 by 5."

The drone of the warp engines was replaced by the rumble of the impulse drives. The stars in the forward view screen wheeled as _Chosin_ turned toward her pursuers, fire spitting from her phase cannons.

"Romulans are dropping from warp, Captain. Disruptor fire from both vessels. Another hit! On romeo-six. Structural damage indicated; we hurt the bastard that time."

He continued relaying sensor data as it registered on his board, "Torpedo launch... multiple launch signatures from romeo-two and romeo-six... twelve torpedoes inbound. Time to impact is thirty seconds."

T'Pol, the picture of composure, responded to the rapidly changing situation with a series of new commands, "Lieutenant Graham, shift fire to incoming torpedoes; I have transferred torpedo launch control to my station. Helm, evasive maneuvers at your discretion, exactly as you did in the simulations."

"If a power cap explodes THIS time, I'm gonna crap myself," Trinh grumbled.

"If it's only a power cap that explodes, I'll be a happy camper," Walder rejoined. There were chuckles all around, albeit nervous ones.

"A hit, another. Two torpedoes destroyed... three more hits... way to go, Mitch! Another hit... Impact in five seconds!"

Ensign Koussa's chilling statement was punctuated by the mechanical cough of _Chosin's_ launchers, and four mark 2 photonic torpedoes shot from their tubes toward the six surviving Romulan torpedoes. The bridge crew barely had time to register the fact that T'Pol had fired the torpedoes, before they detonated.

The antimatter in their warheads combined with equal quantities of matter. A blinding flash of incandescent fury erupted directly in front of _Chosin_, consuming the Romulan torpedoes in an expanding fireball of energy.

The wavefront reached _Chosin_ moments later. The ship lurched as the storm of photons and high energy particles broke against her hull. The converters screamed in protest at the surge in demand from over-stressed hull polarizers, and power relays tripped throughout the ship.

Even before the fireball had completely faded, T'Pol began issuing orders to her stunned bridge crew. "Weapons, shift fire back to romeo-two and six; I'm returning torpedo launch control to you. Helm, maintain course and speed. Engineering, damage control report. Ensign Walder, I trust you found that explosion to be satisfactory?"

Ensign Walder's only response was a high-pitch squeak.

"Damn, Captain, that was a little close, wasn't it?" Graham protested.

"It had the desired effect, Lieutenant. Why are you not firing at the Romulans?"

"Fire control systems are still blinded by the fireball, ma'am."

"They have recovered."

"Oh!" Graham turned back to his station, and the strident cacophony of cannon fire resumed.

"No damage to _Chosin_, my board is green," Ensign Hoefler reported from the bridge's engineering station. "Converters at one-hundred percent, tripped power relays have all been reset."

"Romeo-two and six are firing disruptors," Koussa called out.

_Chosin_ rocked violently as a disruptor beam struck her on the starboard bow.

"Two more hits on romeo-six," Koussa reported, "major structural damage... secondary explosions... we got the bastard! Scratch one warbird."

Any elation on the bridge was short-lived, as a disruptor from romeo-two scored a second hit on _Chosin_, just forward of the starboard nacelle strut.

Ensign Hoefler looked up from the engineering station, trying to contain his alarm, "Hull breach reported in--"

T'Pol interrupted his report, "Fire torpedoes. Now, Lieutenant."

Graham thumbed the control that salvoed all four torpedo tubes. "Torpedoes away, Captain. Eight seconds to intercept."

"Torpedo two lost to disruptor fire. One, three and four running hot and true. Romeo-two attempting to evade..."

A bright flash on the view screen forecast Koussa's next words, "Romeo-two destroyed."

T'Pol allowed no time for celebration before issuing another string of orders, "Helm, set course for Pearl Haven, warp five."

"Setting course 107 by neg 10, warp five, aye. ETA one minute."

"Ensign Walder, give Major Delvecchio a two-minute warning."

"Aye, Captain."

"Verley to bridge. Opening launch bay doors, MACO's are standing by."

"Roger, Chief. Ensign Hoefler, damage report."

"Hull breach, starboard side, decks two and three depressurized from stanchion 28 to 32. Damage to turret four, elevation control lost, lateral movement only. Major systems green, Structural integrity green, Sickbay reports three casualties, one severe, two stable."

T'Pol took an instant to reassure herself that Trip was well, then set aside thoughts of the casualties and focused on the tactical situation. "Ensign Koussa, situation?"

"All ten countermeasure drones were destroyed. The twelve Romulan ships have formed-up and are now heading toward _Chosin_ at warp four. Time to intercept is seven minutes."

"Concentrate your sensors on the space around Pearl Haven. I want to know of any defensive devices, mines, or surveillance systems the Romulans might have placed in orbit."

"Aye, ma'am."

"Lieutenant Graham, a single disruptor strike should not have breached our hull. Can you calculate the energy density of that beam?"

"Yes, ma'am... Beam intensity was ten MegaJoules per square meter." He looked up in surprise, "That's double what intelligence led us to expect."

"Ensign Walder, be sure to include Lieutenant Graham's calculations in the data you are transmitting to Second Fleet."

"Aye, Captain."

"Captain," Koussa said, "I've detected six Romulan satellites in low orbits around Pearl Haven. They appear to be surveillance systems."

"Weapons, target all six with phase cannons and destroy them."

"Aye, Captain."

"Dropping from warp," Trinh reported from the helm, "beginning approach for orbital insertion." For Trinh, this was the trickiest phase of the operation. The MACOs required a precise approach vector and a constant speed. There was no tolerance for error. With twelve Romulan warships bearing down on them, he would only have one chance to get it right.

The sound of sporadic phase cannon fire punctuated Trinh's words as, one-by-one, Graham eliminated the Romulan satellites. "Satellites destroyed," he proclaimed with satisfaction, after the last had been sent to oblivion.

"Thank you, Lieutenant," T'Pol said. "Ensign Hoefler, transporter status?" If transporters were functional, the insertion would be scrubbed and the MACO detachment beamed down, instead.

"Planet-wide dampening fields detected, ma'am. Transporters inoperative."

_As expected. _"Proceed with the insertion, helm."

"Aye, Captain." Trinh fixed his eyes on the console in front of him, and concentrated on holding _Chosin_ to the exact course required for the drop. The approach would be more demanding than a standard orbit, because the altitude was much lower--_Chosin_ was inside that ill-defined envelope where space ends and atmosphere begins. Trinh would have to allow for a small but appreciable amount of drag. Complicating matters, _Chosin's_ required velocity would be too slow to hold an orbit at that altitude. He would have to compensate with thrusters to keep Chosin from spiraling into the atmosphere. He had done it many times in simulation. He had also botched it many times.

"T'Pol to Major Delvecchio."

"Go ahead, Captain."

"Thirty seconds to drop, Major."

"Roger. Godspeed, Starfleet, and thanks for the lift."

The final seconds passed quickly. T'Pol monitored _Chosin_'s progress, ready to take control of the helm at the first sign Trinh was unable to hold _Chosin_ to the required trajectory. Her caution was not needed; _Chosin's_ course did not waiver under Trinh's steady hand.

"Approaching drop point," Trinh announced, his concentration never leaving the helm controls.

T'Pol relayed that information to the launch bay herself, one less distraction for Trinh. "Stand-by to drop..." she sent, followed seconds later by "Go."

At the word 'Go', Major Delvecchio dove head-first through the outer doors, plummeting toward the blue and white vista below. The rest of his detachment followed, hard on his heels. Chief Verley and a despondent Corporal Blanchard watched as the MACOs dwindled into the distance.

"MACOs deployed; closing launch doors," Verley reported.

"Helm, set a course for waypoint alpha, warp five."

"Setting course 36 by 168, warp five, aye. ETA ten minutes."

"Romulans will intercept in five, Captain," Koussa reminded.

The bridge doors opened, and Trip walked through. He went straight to the engineering station, motioning for Hoefler to relinquish his spot. Trip leaned in and touched EV helmets with him, communicating through sound conduction rather than over the comm channel, "Take a break, Ensign."

*Trip, Why are you not in Engineering?* T'Pol sent, not looking around or otherwise acknowledging his presence.

*No need, darling. Everything's humming along nicely, and if _Chosin_ takes damage, they're perfectly able to contain it until I can get back down there. I--I'd rather be here, in case... just in case.* He could not bring himself to complete the thought, but T'Pol knew his meaning. _In case the ship is destroyed._

T'Pol chose not to protest, realizing the futility of doing so. The only way Trip would leave the bridge is if she gave him a direct order, and truth be told, she _was_ comforted by his presence. *You may remain,* she sent. She felt, rather than saw, the impish grin her concession precipitated across his face.

The rest of the bridge crew, unaware of the brief exchange, focused on T'Pol's next string of commands: "The Romulan Commander will be wary of our phase cannons after the way we destroyed the two escort vessels," she announced. "He will try to prevent us from getting in close. As soon as we are in range, he will attempt to overwhelm us with large quantities of photonic torpedoes. Weapons, your first priority is to target and destroy those torpedoes. Use phase cannons initially, but as they converge on _Chosin_, target them with our own torpedoes. Set the warheads to maximum yield; we will need to destroy multiple Romulan torpedoes with each one of our own."

Lieutenant Graham nodded inside his helmet. "Aye, Captain," he said, and Trip was struck by his apparent calm, as if the twelve warships bearing down on them were so many sensor ghosts.

"Ensign Koussa, Lieutenant Graham will be busy tracking and targeting incoming torpedoes. At my command You will be responsible for releasing the remaining two countermeasure drones. Send them on divergent paths. They will not fool the Romulans for more than a few seconds, but that will be enough to divert some of their torpedoes away from _Chosin."_

"Aye, Captain," Koussa responded, with the same unnatural calm Graham had shown.

"Ensign Walder, to prevent Romulan sensors from distinguishing between us and the drones, you will cease all transmissions to Second Fleet when the drones are deployed. Resume the data link when weapons fire resumes. Helm, as the Romulans close on us, veer to starboard of our current heading. Our goal is to place the Romulan battle group directly between us and waypoint alpha. As soon as the drones are deployed, you will make an abrupt course change. Be prepared to increase speed to warp 5.8 on my command. The Romulans have not seen that much speed from us and will not be expecting it."

"Just say the word, Captain," Trinh said, no hint of nervousness in his voice.

Trip monitored the status of his engines with one eye, while observing the interactions of the bridge crew with the other. As he watched, he marveled at the level of trust and confidence that had developed between captain and crew in just one short month. _Five years ago I would have laughed in the face of anyone who told me a Vulcan could command a human vessel, but not only is she doing it, she's doing it well. Better than Jon, I think, and he's one of the best. The crew believes in her. Hell, they __**love**__ her. Not the same way I love her, of course, but they love her nonetheless._

As the tactical situation unfolded around him, he realized that he had also succumbed to T'Pol's magic. He believed, as did the crew, that T'Pol would get them through this fight, despite the twelve-to-one odds they faced. Somehow, her cool determination and Vulcan steadfastness had infected everyone around her, including him. _I suppose that's no surprise. Out of everyone here, I'm certainly the most susceptible to her many charms._

Trip's reverie was interrupted by Ensign Koussa's voice on the comm. "Multiple torpedo launches, Captain... twenty-two... no, thirty-six... uh, make that forty-nine torpedoes inbound. Impact in forty-three seconds."

Trip watched the bridge crew react to this new threat. Some consternation was evident, but no real fear, and certainly no panic. Events, after all, were unfolding exactly as T'Pol had foreseen, and that provided a measure of assurance to everyone.

Graham did not wait for orders, but immediately engaged the inbound torpedoes with a withering barrage of phase cannon fire. Koussa called out hits as they registered on his sensors; five torpedoes were destroyed within the first fourteen seconds.

More would have been destroyed, but T'Pol judged it to be the proper moment to implement the next phase of her plan: "Cease firing phase canons. Walder, comm silence. Koussa, deploy the drones. Helm, set course 126 by 170, warp 5.3"

Koussa released the two countermeasure drones within seconds of T'Pol's command, sending them in opposite directions. As the drones sped away, all eyes were fixed on the tactical display, anxiously watching the tracks of the incoming torpedoes. Tension on the bridge reduced noticeably when nearly two-thirds of the torpedoes turned to home on the receding drones. Just as T'Pol had foreseen.

"Weapons, fire photonic torpedoes, target inbound Romulan torpedoes. Continue firing until all are destroyed."

"Aye, Captain." The torpedo launchers began their staccato cough before T'Pol had finished speaking, and a steady stream of Mark 2's flew downrange, seeking the fifteen Romulan torpedoes still on intercept courses with _Chosin_. Seconds later, they met, and the torpedoes were engulfed by overlapping balls of nuclear hellfire.

Koussa probed the tortured region of space with _Chosin's_ sensors, seeking evidence of any torpedo's survival. There was none. "Incoming torpedoes destroyed," he announced.

"Weapons, engage the Romulan battle group with phase cannons. The cruisers are your first priority. Be prepared to launch torpedoes on my command. I have transfered control of the torpedoes at waypoint alpha to my console. Helm, set a course for the Romulans at warp 5.8. Maneuver to evade incoming fire."

"Course set, warp 5.8, aye."

_Chosin_ surged to flank speed, and the sound of her engines increased in volume, overlayed by the high-pitched whine of the phase cannons.

"Romulans firing disruptors," Koussa reported.

"I'm jinking," Trinh called from the helm.

It was a term T'Pol was unfamiliar with, but Trip intervened before she could ask for clarification. *It means zig-zagging. Juking. Evasive maneuvers.*

*Thank you, Trip*

Koussa reported several hits on the Romulan cruisers. T'Pol noted his even voice, which held none of the excitement or glee that had accompanied his earlier reports. _Humans are remarkably adaptable_, she thought, _twenty minutes of combat, and it has already become routine_.

_Chosin_ lurched violently. "Disruptor hit, starboard aft." Koussa stated.

Trip checked his board. "Hull breach in main engineering. Starboard plasma conduits ruptured. Flow rerouted through back-ups; engines on-line, max speed reduced to warp 5.6. Hoefler, take the board; I'm going below."

As Trip slid from the seat, another report came in. He paused to read it. "Repair Three reports plasma leaks are contained. One casualty with severe plasma burns... Petty Officer Carruthers." Trip swallowed hard--Carruthers was one of the two crewmen who had been assigned from _Enterprise_.

T'Pol sent Trip a quick mental caress as he left the bridge. *Be careful, my love.* Then it was back to business: "Lieutenant Graham, fire torpedoes, all tubes. Target each Romulan vessel with three."

"Aye, Captain, launching torpedoes."

While _Chosin's_ launchers spit a stream of torpedoes at the Romulan vessels, T'Pol sent the sequence of commands to activate the twenty torpedoes floating at waypoint alpha. They woke from their electronic slumber and sped toward the enemy battle group.

After the last torpedo was away, Graham looked up from the weapons console. "Thirty-six torpedoes running hot and true. Twenty-two seconds to intercept."

Koussa followed Graham's announcement with one of his own, "Torpedoes from waypoint alpha are active, targets acquired. All twenty running hot and true. Intercept in nineteen."

The Romulan Commander realized his danger as soon as his sensors detected the threat from waypoint alpha--a threat that had seemingly come from nowhere. He had little chance of intercepting and destroying that many torpedoes from opposite directions, so he gave the order for the battle group to disperse. The twelve Romulan ships diverged on twelve separate tracks, torpedo launchers firing as fast as their tubes could be reloaded, disruptors laying down a ferocious blanket of fire. It was not enough. Eighteen Starfleet torpedoes survived the barrage, and eighteen high-yield antimatter warheads detonated in the vicinity of the scattering warships.

When the fireballs faded, there was nothing left of the Romulan force but glowing dust.

The bridge was silent while Koussa probed the impact area for signs of surviving warships. "Romulan vessels destroyed."

"My God. We did it," Graham exclaimed. "We really did it!"

"Of course we did," Walder said. "Did you ever doubt we would?"

In fact, he had, but he was not going to admit it. Not at that moment.

T'Pol was not quite ready to let them celebrate. "Helm, set a course for Earth, warp five. Ensign Koussa, switch to passive sensors, wide area scans. Look for any signs of Romulan reinforcements.

"Course set, dropping to warp five, aye," Trinh said.

"My board is clear, Captain. No sign of Romulan activity."

"Very well, Ensign." T'Pol removed her helmet, "Lieutenant Graham, secure from General Quarters. Normal wartime cruising, set watch section one." Then she sent an update to Trip, *Trip, the Romulan battle group has been destroyed. It is done.*

*I know, darling. I've been keeping an eye on the tactical display from down here. Your bridge crew did well today; you should give them all an atta-boy.*

*I presume that means a compliment?*

*Right. Atta-boy. Kudos. Warm fuzzy. They're all the same thing.*

*Then why not CALL them the same thing?*

*C'mon, where's the fun in that?*

T'Pol did not answer, but Trip sensed her amusement at this now-familiar human foible. She stood and removed her EV suit with cat-like grace, stowing it behind the command chair. She turned to her bridge crew, who were busy stowing their own suits, and waited with hands clasped behind her back. Ensign Walder noticed her first, and nudged Koussa, who tapped Trinh on the shoulder. In short order T'Pol had the attention of everyone on the bridge.

"You each did very well today," she said, without preamble. "I am proud of you and pleased with your performance. Lieutenant Graham, the bridge is yours." She turned and left, leaving the five humans staring open-mouthed at each other.

"Am I hearing right?" Koussa asked. "Did Captain T'Pol just say she was _proud_ of us?"

Graham slowly took his place in the Captain's chair. "That's what she said. As far as I know, that's a first."

Koussa snorted. "Maybe it's a first because this is the first time we've defeated a Romulan battle group."

"Whaddya mean, WE?" Hoefler said. "WE had nothing to do with it. That was all the Captain."

Walder ran a hand through her sweat-dampened hair. "Did anyone else notice the Captain's hair after she took her helmet off?" she asked, just a hint of envy in her voice. "Her hair was bone-dry. She was cool as a cucumber the whole time." She looked to where Graham sat in the command chair. "That's a pretty big chair you're sitting in, Mitch," she teased. "Are you sure you're up to it?"

Graham glanced down at the console in the arm of the chair, then back at Walder. His expression was especially sober. "I'm quite sure I'm not."

#####

After leaving the bridge, T'Pol went directly to sickbay, where Petty Officer Boryez and a corpsman were taking one of the injured crewman from the imaging chamber.

"I'll be right with you, Captain," Boryez called. "Give me a moment."

T'Pol looked around, taking stock of the situation. In addition to the crewman at the imaging chamber, there were three other casualties present. One was badly burned--Crewman Carruthers, T'Pol saw--and the last two were ambulatory, with relatively minor injuries.

Petty Officer Boryez gave a string of instructions to the corpsman, then joined T'Pol, stripping off a pair of gloves as she approached. "If you join me in my office, ma'am, I'll give you a quick update."

"That would be agreeable," T'Pol said. She accompanied Boryez to a corner of sickbay where a small desk was set against the bulkhead. There was a chair at the desk, but no other seat, so, out of deference to her Captain, Boryez remained standing.

"I have four wounded, ma'am. Two minor and two severe. All are stable. One is fit for duty and will be released within the hour."

"Who are the severely wounded?"

"Crewman Carruthers from Engineering; extensive plasma burns to his back and right side. Petty Officer Ramsey from Life Support; open chest wound, abdominal injuries, and several fractures. Neither of them would have survived without the surgical bed and the regen tank you got for me, ma'am."

"The credit goes to you, Petty Officer. I simply acted on your recommendation."

"No ma'am, you did much more than that. You commandeered the extra room I needed. You expedited the work orders to rearrange bulkheads, run extra power, plumb water and waste lines, and install a bio-isolated ventilation system. You approved the time and expenses for the additional training my corpsmen needed. And you intervened when the BuMed inspector said it was out-of-spec and tried to shut me down. I just want you to know two people are alive today because of what you did."

T'Pol nodded, then changed the subject. "May I speak with Carruthers or Ramsey?"

"No ma'am, they're still under anesthesia. I'll let you know when they've recovered enough to talk."

"Please do. In the meantime, I will talk to your ambulatory patients."

T'Pol started toward the two lightly-wounded crewmen, but paused when she saw Chief Verley approaching at a rapid pace. "Lieutenant Graham told me I'd find you here, Captain," he said. "A sitrep from Fleet Ops just came in. It's a summary of the other three insertion missions."

"Go ahead."

"USS _Antietam_ took heavy damage at Deneva Prime, with twelve wounded and eight KIA, but her MACOs all made it dirtside. At the New Dallas colony, USS _Normandy_ had fewer casualties--eight wounded and four KIA--but had to abort the mission. Her MACOs never landed. _Marathon_..." here Verley paused for a moment, and continued in a lower voice, " _Marathon_ was lost with all hands. She completed her mission and dropped her MACOs on Lalande III first, though."

T'Pol was silent for a moment, her face unreadable. "Thank you, Chief. I'll read the details when I return to the bridge." She turned and walked away, continuing toward the chairs where the two injured crewman sat. _Gone to talk to the wounded_, Verley noted with approval.

Boryez came to stand beside Verley as T'Pol walk away. "I don't think I'll ever get the Captain figured out," she said. "Her role in expanding my sickbay just saved two lives, but when I thanked her for it, she acted like it wasn't important."

Verley shrugged. "Maybe it's not."

Boryez bristled, and Verley decided he'd better elaborate. "Look at the big picture," he said. "She saved a lot more than two lives today. In fact, I'd say she saved the lives of everyone on board. What she did today was... it was..." Verley searched in vain for words that would do justice to his thoughts, "it was the most brilliant display of spacemanship and tactical ship handling that I have ever witnessed. Captain T'Pol was absolutely magnificent. She took on an entire Romulan battle group with one--ONE--frigate, and destroyed them all. Completely and utterly destroyed them. And she lost no one in the process. Not a single crewman. Do you have any idea how remarkable that is?"

Boryez was taken aback by the normally taciturn Chief's effusive praise, but in this case she had to agree with him. It _was_ remarkable.

#####

Trip watched patiently as Ensign Saracco struggled to align her plasma torch with the bolt heads on the damaged inlet valve. _We'd be done by now if I did it myself_, he thought, _but Luisa needs to get her hands dirty on some real battle damage. There's never a crewman or petty officer around when you need one_.

"You might want to double-check the torch settings before you light it off," Trip advised. "Set the cutting field too long, and you'll slice the control lines, along with the bolt heads. That's a bad thing."

Saracco nodded, and carefully tweaked the appropriate settings, tongue darting between her lips in concentration.

A tickle at the back of his mind caused Trip to look around. T'Pol stood between the first-stage preheater and the intermix chamber, quietly watching them work. *Hey darling,* he sent.

*I apologize for the interruption,* T'Pol replied. *I can return later.*

Trip started to agree, wanting to finish up Saracco's lesson in damage repair, but something unusual in T'Pol's behavior caused him to reconsider.

*How long have you been standing there?* he asked.

*One minute forty-two seconds.*

*Is everything okay, T'Pol?*

*I was watching you work,* she replied. *I enjoy doing that, but have not been able to do so since we came aboard _Chosin_.*

*So... you're just going to stand there and watch me work?* Trip wondered how he would explain that to Ensign Saracco, once she became aware of T'Pol lurking behind them.

*No, my love. It was a momentary indulgence. I will go to our quarters, now. I... I need you to join me once you are done here.*

That got Trip's full attention. For T'Pol to admit that she _needed_ anything meant that something was wrong, validating his earlier suspicions. *I'm done now,* he sent, then tapped Saracco on the shoulder. She glanced at him, and he made a cutting motion across his throat.

"Sir?" she asked, shutting off the plasma torch. Then she noticed T'Pol, still standing in the gap between machines. "Captain."

"I've got to go," Trip told Saracco. "You finish up here. If you run into any problems, see Crewman Lee. He knows this equipment like the back of his hand."

"Yes sir," Saracco said, trying not sound as uncertain as she felt.

Trip grinned. "Don't worry, you'll do just fine. See you in the morning, Ensign."

He stood, and followed T'Pol from engineering. She had set off at a rapid pace, forcing Trip to scurry to catch up. "Hoefler called down from the bridge a few minutes ago," Trip said, casting a sidelong glance at T'Pol. "He said Starfleet was planning a big reception for _Chosin_ when we return to Earth. Is that what's got you bothered?"

"No. You know I am not comfortable with such ceremonies, but they are meaningful to humans. I would not deny this honor to our crew. They have earned it."

_At least she didn't deny she was bothered_, Trip thought. _There was a time she'd die before admitting such a thing. She's come a long way in that department_. "So are you going to tell me what it is, or do I have to guess?"

"You _should_ already know," T'Pol stated.

That could only mean one thing. "You need my help meditating. Sorting through the emotions you've suppressed."

"Yes."

"Huh," Trip grunted. "Of course I'll help; I'm just surprised you need it. Everything worked today. _Everything_. Your plan was flawless. The execution was flawless. _You_ never doubted it would work, at least not that I could detect."

"That is not quite accurate."

Trip's eyebrows shot up. "What... Are you saying you did doubt your plan? If so, _I_ certainly couldn't tell."

"I was confident in the plan until _Chosin_ was struck by the first disruptor beam. The magnitude of damage we sustained from that single strike was astonishing. The plan did not account for that, and I feared at that point we would not survive."

"You mean you _suppressed_ the fear we would not survive."

"Of course. That is the Vulcan way; you know that."

To Trip's ear she sounded a little snippy. _Her emotional tank must be about to overflow_, Trip realized. _It's easy to forget these cool-as-you-please Vulcans aren't emotionless. They just store them away to deal with later, and T'Pol must have stored away some doozies today._

They arrived at their quarters, and Trip stood to one side while T'Pol thumbed the door open. She motioned for him to enter, then followed him through, pulling the door closed behind her. He turned toward her, "Why don't you get comforta--"

T'Pol launched herself at Trip, wrapping her arms around him with a desperation he had never seen from her before. It startled him, and he gently tried to push her back so he could look her in the eyes. She resisted, clinging even tighter.

Trip quit pushing and put his arms around her. He could tell she was holding onto her emotional control even tighter than she held onto him. *Hang on, darling,* he sent, *help is on the way.*

He slipped into her emotional center, as he had done so often in the past. This time, her mental landscape was different; alien and unfamiliar. Trip paused to get his bearings, an unsettled feeling coming over him. In his previous visits, T'Pol's suppressed emotions had been static, stacked neatly in place like mental cord-wood. Today, they roiled and seethed, a boiling pot of mental chaos. Trip could see why T'Pol was having difficulty maintaining her equilibrium. When she pushed down the feelings in one place, they popped out again somewhere else.

For want of a better plan, Trip selected an emotion at random, and _willed_ it into its proper place within T'Pol's mental hierarchy. Then he selected another. And another. As he worked, a picture began to unfold of the cause of T'Pol's emotional stress.

It took Trip several minutes to accomplish what he could normally do in a minute or less, but he finally chased down and processed her last wayward feeling. He gave her a reassuring squeeze. *Done.*

T'Pol sighed, her once-tense body now relaxed--nearly limp--in Trip's arms. *Thank you, my love.*

Trip moved to the bunk, leading T'Pol by the hand and pulling her down beside him. "I know what caused all that stress."

"That is fortuitous, since I do not."

"Looks to me like you've expanded your family."

T'Pol gave Trip a blank look and waited for him to explain.

"The crew," Trip said. "You've become quite attached to them over the past month. In your mind, they are like family."

T'Pol considered Trip's statement. "I have worked closely with them. They have responded well to my guidance and mentoring. They are determined and eager to please. Yet... they are so _very_ young. On Vulcan, they would still be considered children."

"So you've adopted them all. And you're very protective of them. And you're worried that our future fights with the Romulans will not be so on-sided as this one."

"I _know_ they will not be," T'Pol stated. "I am sorry, Trip. I should have realized what was happening and taken measures to prevent--"

"T'Pol." Trip said, interrupting her. "Don't apologize. It is never wrong to care for others."

"Perhaps not, but my ability to suppress emotions was very nearly overcome. I have not come that close to losing my control since my last exposure to Trellium-D."

"Hmmmm. Maybe you needed to meditate more."

"I have been meditating every night."

"Maybe you need to change your perception of them. A twenty-three year old Vulcan may still be a child, but a twenty-three year old Starfleet officer is very much an adult. You are their Captain, not their Mother. There is a subtle difference."

"I appreciate the difference, Trip. And now that I am aware of the cause, I can take measures to prevent a recurrence. I will not let my concern for their welfare get out of hand again."

"Glad to hear it. Speaking of their welfare, I have a proposal to run by you."

"Yes?"

"I know a guy who has this private beach in Uruguay. Very cozy, off the beaten path. Soft white sand, clear blue water, pretty as a post card. I was thinking we could throw a beach party for the crew. Grill some steaks and hot dogs. Beach volleyball, flag football, swimming, snorkeling, music. Maybe a little dancing in the moonlight." Trip nudged T'Pol suggestively, "Whaddya think?

"Would Starfleet approve?"

"Darling, you just wiped out an entire Romulan battle group. Starfleet will not say no. Not to _you_."

"I will request it, then. I believe the crew would enjoy it."

"Count on it," Trip said, grinning. "Of course, you have to come, too."

"Of course."

"And you have to go swimming. You can swim, right?"

"Of course. I was required to learn while with the Security Directorate."

"So, what does a Vulcan swim suit look like?"

"We swam in our clothing, since that is how we would on a mission."

"Oh, that won't do, not for a beach party. I'll get you a swim suit to wear."

"No, Trip, you will not. I have no confidence that any swim suit you select for me would be appropriate."

"T'Pol, you need _something_. You can't just swim in your uniform!"

"I will discuss the matter with Lieutenant Westermeier. _She_ will give me sound advice."

"Foiled again," Trip muttered, then he brightened. "We'll have a beach volleyball tournament. You and me will make a team--with your vertical and my serve, we'll be unbeatable. Make sure you tell Marlene; you'll want a suit that's not too uncomfortable if you take a dive in the sand." _And that means a skimpier suit,_ Trip thought with satisfaction.

"I will mention it to her."

Trip nodded, "And while you're at it, you might want to get her working on procuring the food for the party. We'll need steaks. Lot's of 'em. Sirloin and rib-eye. Hot dogs, burgers, buns, chips, dips, condiments, drinks--"

"Trip."

"Huh?"

"Make a list of what you require and present it to Lieutenant Westermeier. I will approve it."

"Consider it done." Trip smiled, and pulled T'Pol into a close embrace. She nestled her head against his chest and closed her eyes.

"What would they say on Vulcan if they knew what a mother hen you've become?" Trip murmured as he nuzzled her ear.

"Mother hen?"

"Yeah. You know, a hen with all her chicks? You've practically adopted a shipload of humans. Five years ago, you had to numb your nose just to be in the same room with us."

"There is more to you humans than is immediately apparent."

"Yeah, we do kinda grow on you," Trip smirked.

"Indeed. I am finding that Vulcan attitudes toward humans have become more positive as they learn more about you. I am also finding that Vulcan society is changing, becoming more open, as the teachings of the lost Kir'shara are disseminated. The rate of change in society is unlike anything seen since the Awakening."

"Just getting rid of that horse's ass V'Las was a big help, Trip said, referring to the former head of the Vulcan High Command."

"Yes. I believe you would call that the 'icing on the pie'," T'Pol agreed.

Further conversation was preempted by the chirping of the comm panel, followed by Ensign Walder's voice: "Bridge to Captain T'Pol."

T'Pol reached across Trip and pressed the acknowledge button, "T'Pol here."

"Captain, I've received a flash priority message from Second Fleet addressed to you."

"Send it to my quarters, Ensign."

"On its way, ma'am."

"Now what?" Trip groaned.

T'Pol crossed the room to the terminal on her desk, and called up the message. She read silently for several seconds, then turned to Trip. "The message is from Admiral Chu. A Romulan fleet has been detected heading for our colony on Lanus Prime. Second fleet is deploying to intercept them. _Chosin_ has been ordered to rejoin the fleet as soon as possible. At flank speed, we should be able to reach them in eight days; two days before the Romulans do."

Trip sighed and got to his feet. "I'll be in engineering. Gotta make some adjustments before we can run at max warp for eight days."

"I will be on the bridge."

Trip nodded, and headed out the door. _Dammit. I was really looking forward to that beach party. And I was SO close to getting T'Pol into a bikini._

**Continued in Chapter 10**


	10. Chapter 10

**Command**

**Author:** Transwarp

**Rating:** PG-13

**Genre:** Action/Drama

**Disclaimer:** Paramount owns Star Trek names, and related intellectual property.

**Summary:** War breaks out with the Romulan Empire, and T'Pol assumes command of a Starfleet frigate. This is the third story in a series (order of stories: **'Commissioning'**, then **'Liaison'**, then **'Command'**).

**TEN  
**Romulus, 2 years, 321 days after the war's beginning (7 Feb 2159)

Grand Marshal Vokalus pulled his field cloak a little tighter as the icy wind picked up. A light dusting of snow swirled across the deserted boulevard and crunched beneath the measured stride of his boots. _I could have had Mezdal bring me to the palace in my plush, heated staff car_, he thought ruefully. _I impress no one when I eschew the trappings of my post_. But Vokalus didn't do it to impress anyone; at heart he was a soldier. A soldier first, last, and always. He hadn't reached his current position by indulging in creature comforts. He got where he was by being physically and mentally tougher than his fellow officers. And tougher than the Praetor's many enemies.

The wind subsided as he approached the broad steps of the Callium, the Praetor's imperial residence. Despite the biting cold, he paused for a long moment at the bottom of the steps. He was not looking forward to this audience with the Praetor. He had not been told the reason for his summons, but he suspected he knew. T_he war is not going well, and His Magnificence is not known for His Patience_.

He brushed a wayward flake of snow from his cloak and resolutely started up the steps. He was a soldier, and soldiers did not shirk their duty.

The doors swung open at his approach, and a Corporal of the Palace Guard stepped out to execute a crisp salute and usher him inside. Vokalus returned the salute with as much, if not more, precision than the Corporal. _In my day_ _we stood our posts outside, regardless of the elements_.

He was shown to the small briefing room the Praetor favored for strategy sessions, and stood outside the door while another guard announced his presence. One did not just walk in on the Praetor.

Vokalus idly scanned the familiar tapestries decorating the hall while he awaited the Praetor's pleasure. His eyes were drawn to the tapestry depicting Ramius' heroic stand against the Ashkolian hoards. Significantly outnumbered, his regiment had fought to the last soldier, and bought the time needed for reinforcements to arrive and turn the tide of battle. Has a child, it had always been his favorite story. Even now, it could still inspire him.

After some time--longer than the normal wait--the guard returned and held the door open for him to enter.

It took all the discipline he had acquired through a lifetime of military service to keep from breaking stride when he saw the room's other occupants. There was the Praetor, of course, and his various ministers and advisers, as expected. But there also was Admiral Krotash, standing at the Praetor's right side, with a smile that was entirely too self-satisfied.

_Krotash. He has hated me since we were cadets together at the Academy. I reciprocate the feeling_.

"Ah, Vokalus," the Praetor said, "Come join us. We have much to discuss."

Vokalus took his place at the briefing table with its built-in holographic display. He shot a quick glance at the display--it showed current dispositions of Romulan and Coalition forces in all theaters of operation--before turning his full attention to the Praetor. _They've been discussing MY strategies without me. Nothing good can come from that, especially with Krotash involved_.

"Tell me, how goes the war?" The Praetor asked. His tone was devoid of interest, almost lackadaisical, as if he already knew the answer. Or didn't care.

Vokalus took a moment to collect his thoughts. _I must be careful. This is clearly more than a normal status update. How much more, I cannot yet say_. He shook off his discomfort and approached the holographic map, calm and confident. He was the Grand Marshal, Supreme Commander of the combined forces of all military services, directly responsible for the largest, most powerful war machine the Romulan Star Empire had ever fielded. He would not be intimidated by the presence of an unimaginative thug like Krotash.

He accepted a pointer from the Praetor's aide. "As you know, Magnificence, we took Lanus last month. We are consolidating our position there, building our defenses and preparing for a strike against Lalande. After we take Lalande, we will finally be positioned for offensive operations against Earth." As he spoke, his pointer moved along an arc of stars, from Rho Virginis in Romulan space, through Calder, Vadalla, Chi Eridani, 61 Virginis, Beta Hydri, 6 Virginis, and Lanus. The tip of his pointer swept through the arc in seconds, but it had taken his forces over two and a half years of vicious, bloody fighting to make the same trip. The Coalition had fought like cornered ter'ak at every step. In the end, their planets had fallen, and those star systems now formed a dagger aimed at the very heart of the Coalition.

_Now for the bad news_. His pointer moved downward, to a region of space below the main Romulan axis of advance. He indicated a Coalition salient in Romulan space, comprised of the Romulan star systems Alpha Mensae, Alpha Hydri and Eta Corvi. All captured and held by the Coalition.

"There has been no activity along the Eta Corvi salient. Coalition losses have left them too weak to push farther into our space, but we have insufficient forces in the region to dislodge them. We are currently at a stalemate on that front."

Vokalus' pointer moved again, up to the region above the main Romulan effort, where a second Coalition salient pushed into Romulan space. The Coalition held the Romulan star systems Dessica, Epsilon Virginis, Devron, and Zeta Trianguli.

"Last week, I launched an attack to reclaim Zeta Trianguli. The attack was repulsed, but Coalition defenses were seriously weakened. I am diverting forces from the main axis to reinforce our fleet at Terix. Once they are in place, we will strike again, and close this salient."

Vokalus faced the Praetor squarely, the pointer clutched behind his back. "That is the current situation, Magnificence. May I answer any questions?"

The Praetor's expression was unreadable as he considered Vokalus' words. He turned to Krotash, who had a strangely eager gleam in his eyes. "Admiral, would you comment on the Grand Marshal's analysis?"

"Certainly, Praetor. It is nothing but crallit dung." He favored Vokalus with a malicious smile, clearly enjoying himself. "Vokalus has squandered our forces and mismanaged this war from the beginning. We went into this conflict with a three-to-one advantage in ships. It now stands at two-to-one, under the Grand Marshal's careful leadership. He took Lanus the second month of the war, but could not hold it. Just last month he took it again, after nearly three years. Instead of exploiting our victory, he is shifting forces to another front. His over-cautious strategy will bleed us dry before we ever claim the victory we _should_ have seen in the war's first year."

Vokalus gritted his teeth and stoically endured Krotash's smug tirade, although at that moment he would have liked nothing more than to reach across the holographic display and choke the life from him. Instead, he appealed to the Praetor's memory. "Magnificence, surely you remember the reasons for my strategy? We lost Lanus the first time because we over-reached. We fought the Coalition as if they were Klingons. They are not. They have a cleverness and cunning the Klingons have never shown. The Coalition did not launch a frontal attack against our warships in the Lanus system. They searched for and interdicted our auxiliary vessels. We lost our repair tenders. Our supply ships. Spare parts. Torpedoes. Without our logistic tail, we could not hold Lanus."

"Yes," Krotash sneered, "Under your leadership, a small force of Starfleet frigates--_frigates!_--was able to find and destroy the resupply convoy of an entire fleet. Weren't they led by that very same frigate that somehow destroyed an entire battle group at Pearl Haven? And wasn't it that same frigate that delayed the arrival of your reserves long enough for the remnants of the Coalition fleet to escape at Chi Eridani? Your inability to decisively defeat these vermin sickens me."

That Krotash had the confidence to hurl such grave insults at the Grand Marshal in the presence of the Praetor was quite revealing. _I am being replaced_, Vokalus realized. He made one last appeal to the Praetor, "Magnificence, we learned much from the first Lanus campaign. We learned not to over-extend our supply lines. We learned to consolidate our gains before launching our next offensive. It is not fast and it is not glorious, but it is the only way to fight these Coalition devils. They have an uncanny way of seeking out and exploiting every exposed weakness. That is why I am reinforcing the Zeta Tri salient. Surely you can see the Coalition's strategy? These two fronts form a set of pincers that threaten Rho Virginis. That is where the major installations, depots and ship yards supporting our main effort are all located. Should they succeed in taking Rho Virginis, our whole axis of advance into Coalition space collapses. I cannot allow that, even if it delays the offensive to take Lalande."

The Praetor sighed. "And I cannot allow this war to drag on endlessly. Admiral Krotash is right, you do not have the stomach to do what is required. I am sorry, Vokalus, but it is time Romulus had a new Grand Marshal." He turned to Krotash. "Are you prepared to take on this responsibility?"

"Yes, Magnificence," Krotash affirmed, making no attempt to hide his satisfaction.

_I wonder which pleases him more_, Vokalus thought, _his appointment or my downfall?_

"Congratulations, Krotash," Vokalus said, wearily, "You are now Grand Marshal of the Romulan Star Empire. What will you do with that responsibility?"

"What _you_ should have done years ago, had you the stomach. I am going to consolidate our fleets and launch an immediate assault on Earth. I will use our numerical advantage to smash any Coalition forces that stand in my way. I will demand the human's surrender, and punish them heavily if they refuse. I will do the same with the Andorians, and the Tellarites. And finally the Vulcans."

Vokalus could barely believe what he heard. _Krotash is a fool. He has learned nothing from the fighting over the past three years_. "Your plan will not work," Vokalus stated.

Krotash showed no anger at Vokalus' disparagement. Why should he? Today, he finally received what he had always craved: Power and recognition. "Such arrogance does not become you, Vokalus. You cannot believe you are the only one who can win this war."

_All is lost_, Vokalus thought. _I have lost my office, replaced by a bloodthirsty fool. The Praetor needs to hear the truth, even if he will not heed it. And even if I am punished for daring to speak it._

Vokalus turned to the Praetor. "Magnificence, not even I can win this war. It is time you heard the truth. You will never hear this from Krotash, and I regret that you did not hear it from me sooner, but... the war is lost. It was lost in the first month, when we failed to keep Vulcan out of the conflict. Our best strategy is the one I was pursuing--a steady, methodical advance to minimize our losses, until we can negotiate a treaty. What Krotash plans is madness. It will result in a bloodbath for both sides."

"You speak treason!" Krotash hissed.

The Praetor silenced him with an upraised hand, but his eyes were locked on Vokalus. "My own Grand Marshal was convinced my cause was lost the whole time he prosecuted the war on my behalf? Is this truly what you would have me believe, Vokalus? Speak!"

Vokalus bowed his head, "I am but a soldier," he said, "and service to the Praetor is my highest calling. I judged that I served you best by preserving your military forces in the face of an enemy we could never defeat."

The Praetor's face turned a dark shade of green. "And I judge that you have exhibited craven cowardice in the face of the enemy, and treason and treachery in the face of your Praetor. You will stand before an Imperial Commission to answer for these crimes." He turned to his Chief Minister, "Pyral, summon the Palace Guard and have Vokalus confined. Immediately."

Krotash could barely contain his glee. In the space of a single day--no, a single _hour_--he had been elevated to the highest position in the Romulan military, AND the self-righteous, arrogant Vokalus charged with treason. Had there ever been a more perfect day in the history of Romulus?

Vokalus did not struggle as he was lead away. His Praetor had spoken. _I am a soldier, first, last and always, and a soldier obeys his Praetor_.

#####

_Chosin_, with 2nd Fleet at Lalande III, 12 Feb 2159

T'Pol approved the supply requisition and sent it on to Second Fleet, clearing her in-box of the last of her administrative tasks. Tomorrow would bring another influx of forms and memorandums, up from her department heads and down from Fleet, but she did not mind. Unlike Trip, the routine tasks involved in running a ship--what he called 'paperwork'--did not bother her. Rather, she found the mindless, repetitive nature of the tasks to be soothing; almost meditative.

She shut down the terminal and stood, considering her next move. She had two hours before Admiral Chu's operations briefing at Starbase 7, but no ship's business was currently demanding her attention. T'Pol reflected back on the initial days of the war, when every waking moment of every day had been filled with urgent tasks. She took a moment to appreciated the difference that a fully-manned vessel with sixty-nine experienced crewmen made in reducing her daily workload.

She realized that could change drastically following the op brief, depending on the nature of whatever operation had escaped from the staff sections of the Joint Coalition Command. The entire fleet might become a beehive of frantic activity, or it might only effect one squadron. She could only wait and see.

Early evening was normally the time she set aside for physical conditioning with Trip, but he was meeting with the BuShips Detachment on Starbase 7, passing on yet another engineering innovation from his fertile mind. T'Pol allowed herself a small surge of pride at her mate's acknowledged expertise in his chosen field. Early in the war, she had been concerned that such displays of engineering prowess would strengthen BuShip's determination to have Trip transferred back to Earth. That was before _Chosin_ and her crew distinguished themselves by earning an unprecedented four Starfleet Unit Citations: The Pearl Haven raid; interdicting the Romulan resupply convoy at the First Battle of Lanus; the rear-guard action off of Chi Eridani; and a series of screening operations at 6 Virginis.

Admiral Chu, convinced that Commander Tucker's presence on _Chosin_ was essential to T'Pol's continued success, fought tooth and nail to keep him in Second Fleet. BuShips eventually capitulated in the face of Chu's dogged resistance, and their attempts to get Trip reassigned to Earth ceased. At least for the moment.

A pang of hunger reminded T'Pol that she had eaten a light breakfast and completely skipped lunch. If past history were any guide, Chu's op brief would be a marathon; not something she wanted to face on an empty stomach. She left her small office adjoining the Captain's stateroom and made her way to the mess deck. The serving line had already closed, but there was usually something suitable in stasis left over from dinner, and if not, the cooks would not mind preparing her a simple salad.

The mess deck was not empty when she arrived. In fact, it was rarely empty; between meals it became the crew's de facto gathering place. The table closest to the drink dispenser was occupied by no less than seven off-duty crewmen.

Petty Officer Trinh was the first to notice her presence. "Khart-lan! Why aren't you at Chu's op brief?"

"It was delayed until 2000 to give his staff more time to prepare," T'Pol answered.

Trinh shook his head. "Must be nice to get all the extra time you need. When the plan finally gets down to us, it'll be the last minute. Mark my words; we'll all be jumping through our asses to get it done."

His statement was met by grins and snorts of laughter from the others, although T'Pol could find nothing amusing about it. "I must concur with your assessment," she said, "I have also noticed a propensity for the upper echelons of command to consume most of the planning and preparation time for any operation."

"Any idea what they've got in the works for us, Captain?" The question was from Crewman Leach, one of Trip's electricians. She was fairly new to _Chosin, _aboard less than six months, but she'd seen action at the second battle of Lanus and its aftermath, when _Chosin_ provided cover for the Coalition's retreat to Lalande III. T'Pol noted again that only members of Operations Department ever addressed her as 'Khart-lan'; it seemed to be an unspoken rule, one that existed for reasons she would probably never understand.

"I have some ideas, but it would be premature to discuss them," T'Pol replied.

"Not premature at all," Trinh said, with a smug look. "It's pretty clear what's going on."

"And that is what, exactly?" Leach inquired. The occupants of the table all turned expectant looks toward Trinh.

"Just look out there," he said, gesturing toward the mess deck's large window. "Quite a sight, isn't it?" Warships were everywhere, moored together in clusters. Shuttlepods and cargo lighters swarmed between the clusters, carrying supplies, provisions and personnel. In the distance, the still-unfinished structure of Starbase 7 glittered in the light of Lalande 25372, dwarfing the nearby vessels. "Lot of ships, huh? Look over there--a flotilla of Vulcan cruisers. And there--an Andorian battle squadron. And more new construction coming out of spacedock all the time."

"Yes," Leach agreed, impatiently, "It's very impressive. But you said you know what's going on."

"And so I do. I monitor the bridge displays every day. Half the corvettes in Second Fleet are out on picket duty, making sure Romulan scouts and probes stay beyond sensor range. And there are the decoy drones, hundreds of them, warping out a couple of light years, then back again. And every day, there are fewer ships moored here. They are quietly slipping away, amid all the decoys, two or three at a time, always departing on random vectors."

Trinh paused, taking a moment to bask in the undivided attention he was receiving, "Starfleet is clearly redeploying Second and Third Fleets, and they don't want the Romulans to know they're doing it. That can only mean one thing. We're reinforcing Zeta Tri, Eta Corvi, or both, in preparation for a strike at the Romulan bases on Rho Virginis."

"So, _Chosin_ is going to Zeta Tri or Eta Corvi?" The question was from Crewman Froehner, another recent addition to the crew. She had reported aboard about the same time as Crewman Leach, and worked in Stores Division.

Trinh shook his head. "I didn't say that. In fact, I believe _Chosin_ is staying here. Starfleet will keep a small force behind to harass the Romulans and keep them occupied. Who do you think Admiral Chu will assign to a mission like that?"

"_Chosin_."

"Exactly."

T'Pol was impressed by Trinh's strategic analysis. He had reached the same conclusion as her, but had done so with much less raw data. "I must concur with your assessment," she told him. "It mirrors my own analysis."

Trinh smiled, obviously pleased by T'Pol's concurrence.

"However," she continued, addressing the whole table, "operational security requires that you keep this speculation to yourselves."

They nodded their agreement, "Yes, Khart-lan."

T'Pol turned to go to the stasis unit, but her path was blocked by Petty Officer McCourtney, bearing a tray of food.

"Dinner is served," he proclaimed, grandly. "Have a seat, Cap'n."

T'Pol took the indicated seat, and McCourtney placed the tray in front of her. It held a salad without dressing, a small bowl of sliced peaches, a cup of chamomile tea, and silverware. "Thank you," she said, "this is quite satisfactory."

McCourtney smiled and nodded. "Not bad for a plumber, eh?" It was a standing joke. PO3 McCourtney, one of _Chosin's_ original crew members, had signed on as a cook, but for the first year of the war he had been required to work as a pipe fitter. He eventually reclaimed a position in the galley, but was still known to one and all as 'the plumber'.

"Let me know if I can get you anything else, ma'am," he said. "There's still some blackberry cobbler, but no ice cream, I'm afraid."

"Ooh! Ooh! I'll have some cobbler," PO3 Hodges exclaimed from across the table. He was a Torpedo Tech, and like McCourtney, an original _Chosin_ crew member.

"Like hell you will," McCourtney growled. "You had three helpings at dinner. You're probably the reason we're out of ice cream."

Hodges feigned an injured expression. "It takes a lot of food to sustain me. Down in the torpedo rooms we _work_--something _you_ wouldn't know about."

"Is that so? Truth is, you wouldn't last a week cooking for the hungry mob on this ship."

"That's a load of crap." Hodges turned to T'Pol, "Khart-lan, you know what we both do. Tell him who has the toughest job."

An expectant hush fell over the table as they awaited her judgment. She gave each of them a calculating look. "Based on the way you are both loitering on the mess deck, it would appear that neither of your jobs are especially challenging. I will ask Chief Verley to rectify that situation at his earliest opportunity." She calmly sipped her tea as the table exploded into loud hoots and guffaws.

After the last strain of laughter subsided, Crewman Froehner began to speak, "Captain, is it true that you, uh, that you have a, ummm..." Her voice trailed away into uncertain silence, and she blushed as all eyes at the table turned in her direction.

She gathered her courage and forged ahead. "Captain, do you really keep a stuffed bear in your pocket?" she blurted.

McCourtney recoiled in horror. "Moose! You can't ask the Captain that. It's _personal_."

Froehner seemed to shrink into herself at McCourtney's admonition. T'Pol glanced around the table; from the expressions she saw, it seemed everyone shared McCourtney's indignation at Froehner's forwardness. _They are trying to protect my privacy_, she realized.

Then McCourtney's exact words sank in. "Crewman Froehner, is your first name not Linda?" T'Pol asked.

"Yes ma'am, it is," Froehner replied, in a subdued voice. "I'm sorry if I pried--"

T'Pol silenced her with an upraised hand, and turned to McCourtney. "You called her 'Moose'. Why?"

A puzzled expression crossed McCourtney's face. "Uh, that's her nickname, ma'am."

_A nickname. I thought as much_. T'Pol's eyes narrowed fractionally. She had her own experiences with a nickname, none of them pleasant. As an adolescent, she had reached the age when Vulcans were expected to begin exercising a modicum of discipline over their emotions. It was a trying time for T'Pol. She lagged well behind her peers in the ability to control her feelings, and her active mind and restless spirit only made things worse. When the elders gathered the youth for their daily instruction in meditation, she was always the last to enter a meditative state, and the first to leave it. She would then have to endure the elders disapproving attention as she unsuccessfully tried not to fidget. Her constant (for a Vulcan) state of motion caused her peers to name her _padan-grazhiv_, literally 'spinning dust'. In human terms, a dust devil.

T'Pol found the moniker to be extremely hurtful, yet any attempt to complain or retaliate brought charges that she could not control her emotions. She could only endure in silence, while her peers used the name ruthlessly. They were adolescents, after all, and while they had better control than T'Pol, they were still subject to childish cruelties and petty impulses, especially toward those who didn't quite fit in.

T'Pol looked McCourtney in the eye. "Petty Officer McCourtney, you will address Crewman Froehner by her proper name."

McCourtney's puzzled look mutated into bewilderment. "Uh, aye, Captain."

Froehner had her own bewildered look. "Dear God, no! Please ma'am, don't make them call me Linda!"

T'Pol began to suspect that she had misjudged the situation. "You prefer the name of a large, ungainly mammal to your own given name?"

"Absolutely, ma'am."

T'Pol could detect no hesitation or uncertainty in Froehner's answer. "Why?" she asked.

"I played sweeper on my high school soccer team. As you can see, I'm a pretty big girl, and I'm faster than I look. Any attacker who entered my half of the field did so at her own risk. She was gonna lose the ball, and she usually ended up on her butt. I _earned_ the name Moose." Froehner's pride was evident, even to T'Pol.

"Just look at me, ma'am," she continued, "I'm a plain-looking girl, and that's being charitable. I'm certainly no swan. Sure, when I was younger, that bothered me some, but I've since accepted what I am. I'm a moose. A big, strong moose. I wouldn't want to be a swan, now, even if I could."

"Very well, you may continue to be 'Moose' to your shipmates, although I will not use the term. My own experience with nicknames was less positive than yours."

"Really?" Froehner asked, "You had a nickname?"

"When I was young. They called me _Padan-grazhiv_. Dust devil."

T'Pol saw the barely-restrained delight at her revelation on the faces around the table. She was not quite sure why she had told them--she had never willingly talked about it with anyone else before, save Trip--but it had _felt_ like the right thing to do. The longer she was around humans, the more she trusted those feelings, even when they led her to do things that would have appalled her seven years ago.

"Dust devil? Ma'am, that's an AWESOME nickname!" Froehner exclaimed.

"Not in the manner it was used. I was not pleased to be known as such."

"Don't worry, Captain. No one will hear it from us." Froehner looked around, defying anyone to disagree. There were solemn nods from around the table.

"And Captain?" she continued, "Just forget the question I asked. I was out of line. I'm sorry."

T'Pol considered Froehner's earnest expression, and decided to make another leap of faith. She reached into her side pocket and pulled out a small, stuffed bear. "You were not out of line," she said, "A stranger has no business asking that question, but you are a member of my crew."

She handed the bear to Froehner. "His name is Hey-you, and he was a gift from my husband, given to me when I left for the Vulcan cruiser _Ki'Vaar_."

Froehner took the bear, her eyes wide with wonder, "Awww, he's SO cute!" To T'Pol's amusement, Froehner's next statements were directed at Hey-you; "So you were with the Captain on _Ki'Vaar_, huh? Wow, I'll bet you have some stories to tell."

"I suppose this will now become common knowledge around the ship," T'Pol observed.

Crewman Leach spoke up, "Uh, actually, Captain, it's already common knowledge down in Engineering. We just don't speak of it outside the department."

"Indeed?" T'Pol said. "I did not know. Your forbearance is appreciated, but it is no longer required."

Froehner handed Hey-you back to T'Pol, who returned him to the pocket where he spent his days. The table lapsed into a comfortable silence, and T'Pol took advantage of the opportunity to resume her meal. With seven humans present, she knew the silence was only temporary.

PO1 Nayar from Life Support proved her right, "Captain, is there anything to the rumors that a USO show is coming to the Starbase?"

T'Pol nodded. "They have tentatively scheduled something for next week, but that is all I know."

"You're going, aren't you?" he asked, his face the picture of innocent curiosity.

"I have been to one USO show," T'Pol said, firmly. "It was enough."

They all knew the show she referred to. Everyone in Second Fleet knew of it. The featured act was the comedian Vance Digby, a balding little gnome of a man...

##  
Starbase 3, Beta Hydri system, 7 April, 2158

"...So the Admiral says to me, You can't tell that joke. Why not? I say. Because it's insulting to the Tellarites, he says."

Digby slowly pans the audience, "Insulting to the Tellarites? Don't they LIKE that?"

He smirks, and waits for the laughter to subside. "So I tell the Admiral another joke. Sorry, he says, can't use that one, either. The Vulcans will consider it vulgar. REALLY? I said. But don't Vulcans think ANYTHING a human says is vulgar? I mean, I could quote Surak to a Vulcan, and he'd say I was vulgar. Am I right?"

"I give it another try. Nope, the Admiral says. That'll make the Andorians mad. You gotta be kidding me. Just my BREATHING makes an Andorian mad!"

"Well, I didn't give up. I finally found a joke the Admiral would approve. You wanna hear it? You sure? Okay, here it is: A Vulcan, a Tellarite, and an Andorian walk into a bar... AND THEY DON'T DO A DAMN THING!!!"

He waits for the laughter to subside. "Thank you all, you were great tonight. Thank you. And how about that Mandy Knight? What a voice, Huh? Am I right?" More applause, even louder.

"Before we go, I'm told there's another celebrity here tonight. One of Starfleet's own, in fact. Would you like to meet her? Yeah? Okay, then." Digby peers out into the audience. "Commander T'Pol, please stand up."

The show is in the repair hanger of Starbase 3; actually four bays that open into one large space. Makeshift bleachers have been installed, and three thousand are in attendance, mostly from Second and Third fleets, but also MACO's and civilian support personnel. T'Pol is sitting behind the section reserved for _Chosin's_ crew, next to Trip.

Digby continues, more insistently. "Commander T'Pol, You can't hide. I know you're out there. Admiral Chu said so."

Her own crew gives her up; shouting, whooping, and pointing. "Over here! She's over here!"

Digby follows the commotion and picks her out of the crowd. "Ah, there you are. Come on up, Commander. I promise I won't bite."

A grinning Trip encourages her. *Go ahead, darling. Your public awaits. This is your big chance to break into show biz!*

T'Pol casts a suspicious look at Trip. *If I discover you had ANYTHING to do with this,* she sends, *I will turn you over to BuShips myself. Immediately after I exact my revenge on Admiral Chu.*

*I thought Vulcans didn't partake of primitive emotions like revenge.*

*In this case, I will make an exception.*

Reluctantly, she stands and makes her way to the stage, amid enthusiastic applause. _Chosin's_ crew seems to be intent on destroying their own vocal chords; if it is possible for sixty-nine humans to out-yell three thousand, they are doing it. T'Pol considers the whole affair to be unseemly and lacking in dignity, but... but her crew is enjoying it. _They have given so much of themselves for me,_ she thinks, _I can certainly spare a little of my dignity on their behalf._

Digby motions her over next to him, then presents her to the audience with an exaggerated flourish, "I give you Starfleet's own Commander T'Pol, terror of the Romulan Empire!" There is thunderous applause. T'Pol pushes her discomfort aside and waits calmly as events, quite beyond her ability to control, unfold around her. Digby hands her a microphone, which she takes gingerly, as if it might be a venomous life form.

"You're Captain of the USS _Chosin?_" he asks.

"Yes."

The ship that has three Unit Citations?"

"Yes."

And destroyed over three dozen Romulan vessels, including fourteen in one engagement?"

"Yes."

He waits, expectantly. T'Pol regards him with a calm gaze. "Uh... can you say anything other than 'Yes'?" he asks, when it's clear no amplification will be forthcoming.

"Yes." The titters of amusement from the audience become full-fledged laughs, and Digby laughs along with them. He is clearly being upstaged, but his audience is loving it. "Okay then, please do."

She quirks an eyebrow at him. "Perhaps if you ask a question requiring more than a one-word response?"

"Ah. Right." Digby scratches his head, and the audience waits expectantly. "So, Commander, what's it like living among humans?"

"You do not know?"

More laughter from the crowd; Digby snorts his amusement. "I mean, what's it like for a _Vulcan_ living among humans?"

T'Pol takes a moment to consider her answer. "Imagine a room full of wild primates. Now imagine they have been doused with scalding-hot water. Living with humans is not unlike that."

Digby almost hurts himself, he is laughing so hard. T'Pol stands with a bland expression and waits for him to recover.

"Other than acting... like scalded apes," he gasps between chuckles, "how has your crew taken to serving under the only Vulcan officer in Starfleet?"

T'Pol turns and looks directly at the section where _Chosin's_ crew is sitting. There is a noticeable pause before she answers. "They have honored me with their acceptance, and they serve me with courage and integrity. Any success _Chosin_ has achieved is a direct result of their hard work and dedication. No captain could ask for more than they have given to me."

Digby's first instinct is the humorous response, but he realizes this moment does not call for humor. Instead, he nods approvingly as the audience applauds T'Pol's response. He notices the crew of _Chosin_ have sprung to their feet, clapping furiously. Their pride in their Captain is obvious, and Digby has the answer to his question...  
##

"I will not attend another USO show without assurance that I will not become part of the entertainment," T'Pol stated firmly. "That is something with which I am not comfortable."

Trinh was not convinced. "Really? You seemed perfectly comfortable to me. In fact, you were great up there. You played Digby like a cat toying with a mouse. The poor guy never had a chance."

Hodges took up the refrain, "C'mon, Khart-lan, you HAVE to go. The whole ship will be--OW!"

'Moose' Froehner kicked Hodges under the table and glared at him. "Captain said she's not going, so drop it," she hissed.

Hodges looked around the table, "Did you see that?" he said, in a hurt tone. "She assaulted me! Damn near broke my leg."

"Yes, a most grievous injury," T'Pol agreed, "potentially life-threatening. Chief Boryez must be informed of your condition immediately."

"Anyone else want to bother the Captain about the USO show?" Froehner looked around the room, a belligerent expression on her face. "If so, they're gonna have to deal with the Moose. And in that case, not even Boryez will save you." There were many amused grins, but nobody accepted her offer.

"Thank you, Crewman," T'Pol said to Froehner. "Your methods, while unorthodox, appear to be effective."

"Oh, they're effective, alright."

T'Pol took the last sip of tea, "I must leave for the Admiral's op brief," she said. "Thank you for the food, and for the conversation."

She stood to leave, and McCourtney hurried to her side, relieving her of the food tray. "I'll take that, ma'am."

She nodded, and left the room. Nobody spoke until she was well out of earshot--_Vulcan_ earshot--then Trinh shook his head. "A teddy bear. Who would've thought it?"

#####

Trip boarded the shuttlepod, still chuckling at BuShips latest attempt to lure him to Earth. _A promotion to Captain; my own private, multi-million dollar warp research facility; a team of the Coalition's leading __warp scientists and propulsion engineers; and an unlimited research budget. They must think I'm a blooming idiot to turn down such a sweet deal,_ Trip thought. _But then, none of them are married to T'Pol. No warp core I've ever worked on can quicken my heart or leave me breathless like she does. No set of field equations can match the passion she conceals beneath that stoic Vulcan exterior, a passion she reveals only to me._

Once again, as he did so often, Trip thanked God that neither of them had given up on the other during the tumultuous, confusing, and painful early years of their relationship. The sense of fulfillment, the completeness, the _rightness_ he now felt with T'Pol was worth all the pain they had both experienced, and more.

"Back to _Chosin_, Commander?"

"No, Emeku, I have another appointment, on _Enterprise_. Shouldn't take more than an hour, though."

"No hurry, Commander, I don't mind waiting. In fact, I'll enjoy the chance to see _Enterprise_. She was my second choice for a duty assignment."

"Really? What was your first choice?"

"_Chosin_, of course."

Trip gave the pilot a closer look. Crewman Emeku was busy at the shuttlepod's controls, pulling clear of the docking bay. The sheer wall of Starbase 7 slowly receded, then spun from view as he turned onto a heading for _Enterprise_. "And why was Chosin your first choice?" Trip ask.

"I was living on Pearl Haven when the Romulans attacked," he replied, simply, "I'd been hiding in the hills for weeks when Captain T'Pol brought in the MACO's and destroyed the Romulan battle group. We were liberated that day, and I enlisted in Starfleet as soon afterward as I could. You must understand what the survivors of the Pearl Haven colony feel for Captain T'Pol and _Chosin_. I can promise you that after the war, anyone from _Chosin_ will be welcome on Pearl Haven with open arms. _Especially_ Captain T'Pol. They might even erect a statue of her in front of Town Hall." Emeku was grinning when he said it, but Trip wasn't at all sure he was kidding. _Wouldn't that be a sight? T'Pol, immortalized in some heroic pose._ The thought brought a smile to Trip's face.

Ten minutes later, they arrived at _Enterprise_. Emeku called the watch officer on duty--nobody Trip knew--for permission to dock, then maneuvered the shuttlepod onto the indicated port with practiced ease. Trip made a point of complimenting him on his skill before boarding _Enterprise_.

He waved-off the crewman who was waiting to greet him--also nobody he knew. "I think I can find my way around," he told him, with a smile. He set off at a rapid pace, wanting to be back on _Chosin_ before T'Pol returned from the op brief. _The old girl hasn't changed much_, he thought, as he navigated through _Enterprise's_ familiar passageways.

In short order he arrived at his destination, and pressed the door chime to announce his presence. "Evening, Hoshi," he said, as the door slid open.

Lieutenant Hoshi Sato greeted him with a quick hug and a bright smile. "Come in, Commander."

He followed her into her quarters. "Sochya eh dif, Hoshi." _Peace and long life, Hoshi._

She gave him a surprised look, but responded smoothly, "Dif-tor heh smusma, Zhel-lan. Vuhlkansu t'du weh-rom." _Live long and prosper, Commander. Your Vulcan is much improved._

"Nirsh-dvel nash-veh; saven-tor nash-veh T'Pol." _I have no choice; T'Pol is teaching me_.

Hoshi giggled, and Trip relished the sound. He had not realized how much he missed her bubbly personality until she was no longer around. "What can I do for you, Commander?" she asked, reverting to English.

"I want to learn T'Pol's clan name," Trip said. "I was hoping you could help me with that."

"Oh. Ummm... I don't know, Commander. Vulcan clan names are very... difficult... for humans."

"Believe me, Hoshi, I know. That's why I came to you. I figured you could help me, if anyone can."

"I can try. But it seems to me that T'Pol might actually be better suited for the job."

Trip acknowledged Hoshi's observation with a grin, "Well, yeah, except that I want it to be a surprise. Today is our fourth wedding anniversary, and this is my gift to her."

The romantic in Hoshi melted at that. "A worthy cause, Commander; I will do my best. Uh, what _is_ her clan name?"

Trip extended a piece of paper. Hoshi took it and studied it silently for nearly a minute. "_Sh'hiran'lin'iijyliunh'rei'iy'iukn'hy'wen'lhia'ehrm'n_," she said, slowly. Then again, faster, "_Sh'hiran'lin'iijyliunh'rei'iy'iukn'hy'wen'lhia'ehrm'n_"

"That's it!" Trip said, enthusiastically. "How the hell do you DO that?"

Hoshi shrugged. "It's a gift. I think the best thing to do is to break it down into small chunks for you..."

After fifteen minutes of Hoshi's tutelage, T'Pol's clan name was rolling from Trip's tongue with the ease of a native. Hoshi was duly impressed, and said as much.

Trip responded with a self-deprecating shrug, "I help T'Pol with her emotions, and she helps me with... well, with everything else. In addition to learning Vulcan, She's helping me with my memory, and my analytical abilities. I've got the entire table of normalized warp coefficients memorized to three decimal places, and I can solve a fourth-degree polynomial in my head. Not a big deal, really--T'Pol can do a fifth-degree in hers. Still, it comes in handy on the job."

Hoshi shook her head. "I don't know, it sounds like a real grind, to me."

"It does, doesn't it?" Trip agreed. "But here's the dirty little secret." He lowered his voice, conspiratorially, "It's _easy_. T'Pol just slips into my mind, and shows me what to do, then--poof--I can do it. I became fluent in Vulcan in just two years. We work out In the evenings, and she's teaching me a Vulcan fighting style called suus mahna. We've only been doing it, off and on, since the war started, but now I'm nearly as good as T'Pol. Not as strong or as fast as her, but I know the techniques. I could probably give Malcolm a run for his money."

Hoshi giggled again, "Malcolm would be jealous if he knew. He collects martial art techniques like a kid collects baseball cards, and he's been wanting to learn Vulcan styles for a long time."

Trip observed the way Hoshi's eyes lit up when the topic turned to Malcolm. "Speaking of Malcolm, how are you two doing?" he asked, gently.

She blushed, but recovered quickly. "I'm sure Commander Reed is doing just fine."

Trip crossed his arms and gazed sternly at her, "Don't give me that crap. This is me, Trip. Not 'Commander Tucker', but Trip. The guy that's known you since you were a wet-behind-the-ears Ensign. Now, tell me about you and Mal. The truth."

Hoshi sighed. "The truth is, I'm completely smitten with him, and sometimes I think he reciprocates. But then he gets all... all First-Officery with me. All by-the-book. You know how Malcolm is."

"Yeah, I know."

Hoshi shakes her head. "Sometimes I just want to give up on him, I get so frustrated. Then I remember how you and T'Pol used to butt heads all the time, and... well, just look at you now."

"Hoshi, have you told him how you feel?"

She cast her eyes downward, a miserable look on her face. "No."

Trip shook his head. "You can talk to every alien species we've ever met, but you can't talk to Malcolm. Where's the sense in that?"

"The problem is I never know _who_ I'm talking to--Malcolm, or the First Officer. He just doesn't seem to know how to juggle the two roles."

"I've had similar issues with T'Pol," Trip admitted. "Sometimes when we're alone, she'll--how did you say it?--she'll get all _Captainy_ with me."

"What do you do?"

Trip grimaced. "Last time it happened I'm afraid I lost my temper. It had been a long, frustrating day, and I snapped at her. I--I ripped into her pretty bad."

Hoshi's eyes widened as she tried to imagine the magnitude of a confrontation between the indomitable T'Pol and the irrepressible Trip. "Oh, my. That must have been quite a scene."

"You would think so, wouldn't you?" Trip said, "But it wasn't." He was silent for a long time, before continuing, "Instead of slapping me down, she _apologized_ to me. I mean, I was being a jerk to her, and she... she thought... she actually thought she deserved the things I said. She was practically begging me to forgive her."

Hoshi began to feel a little uncomfortable at Trip's evident shame. "I'm sorry, Commander."

"No need to be sorry, Hoshi; the story has a happy ending. After I cooled off, I made damn sure T'Pol knew she'd done nothing wrong, and _I_ apologized to her. Profusely. She accepted my apologies with her typical grace. Didn't even make me grovel, which is much more than I deserved. In public, she's the Captain, no questions asked. I've always supported her. In private, she's learning--no, we're _both_ learning--to keep the two roles separate; Captain and Wife, Chief Engineer and Husband. Malcolm can do the same, but he needs someone to show him how."

Hoshi looked doubtful, "I don't know. He can be pretty stubborn..."

"More stubborn than _T'Pol_?"

She had to smile at that.

#####

"You have a message, Commander," Crewman Emeku said, when Trip returned to the shuttlepod.

"Who's it from?"

"_Chosin_. They've received a comm addressed to you from someone at the civilian passenger terminal. A Vulcan."

"A Vulcan?" Trip's brow wrinkled as he tried to imagine who it could be. He drew a blank. "Let's see the message."

Emeku called it up on one of the shuttlepod's data displays, and Trip leaned in to read it. "I'll be damned. It's from Kov!"

"Kov?"

"Yeah. A Vulcan I met once." Trip gazed absently at the message on the screen while recalling past events, "I helped him with some repairs to his ship--nice kid, but not much of an engineer. He was with a group of outcast Vulcans, uh, the v'tosh ka'tur. Vulcans without logic. They don't suppress their emotions like normal Vulcans."

"Does he need more repairs?"

"Don't think so. It says he wants to meet me." Trip looked up from the display, "Feel like making a side trip? How long to get to the PAX terminal from here?"

Emeku entered coordinates into the nav system. "Twenty minutes, sir."

"Sounds good," Trip said, let's go."

"Aye, sir."

Thirty minutes later, Trip was standing in the small central lobby of Lalande III's only orbital passenger terminal. Eight gates were evenly spaced around the perimeter, each one leading to a docking port. A small snack bar and a news stand were the only amenities. There were dozens of chairs, and a scattering of people, but only one with pointed ears.

Trip grinned and made his way to the lone figure. "Hello, Kov."

Kov turned at the sound of Trip's voice, and quickly stood. "Commander Tucker. Thank you for coming."

Trip looked him up and down. He appeared to have lost some weight; it looked good on him. "What, no smile for me?"

"No commander. I am no longer v'tosh ka'tur. I have embraced the disciplines of Surak. The _true_ disciplines, that were revealed when the Kir'shara was found, not the High Command's self-serving fabrications."

"Did you come in on your old ship? The _Vahklas_?" Trip asked the question nonchalantly, as if he were inquiring about the weather, but he was very much interested in the answer. If _Vahklas_ was in-system, then Trip was going to arrange a meeting with a certain Vulcan named Tolaris, and it would not be to exchange pleasantries. _He has much to answer for_, Trip thought, grimly, _starting with the forced mind-rape of my wife. I will relish practicing my suus mahna skills on his smug face_.

"No, Commander. I left _Vahklas_ over a year ago. I have booked passage on the commercial ship _Polaris Maru_." Trip didn't know whether to be disappointed or relieved, although disappointment seemed to be the preponderate emotion.

"What brings you to Lalande III?" Trip asked. "Especially now? In about three weeks, we're gonna be up to our eyebrows in Romulans."

Kov's confusion at the figure of speech was quite evident, and not at all surprising. _Even T'Pol is stumped by the occasional human expression_, Trip thought, _although it happens to her much less frequently, these days_.

Trip switched to Vulcan, partly to clarify his statement, and partly to show off; "_I meant that a Romulan attack is expected in three weeks and Lalande III will not be safe. All civilians are being evacuated from the colony; why come here now?_"

Kov masked his surprise at Trip's unexpected facility with Vulcan, and replied in kind, "_I am on my way to Earth. I stopped here specifically to speak with you_."

"_Indeed. Of what would you speak?_" Trip asked.

Kov reverted to English. "I wish to join Starfleet, and I believe that a favorable recommendation from you would help me attain that goal."

Trip stared in disbelief for several seconds, before he spoke "Starfleet?" He sat in a chair, and motioned for Kov to join him.

"Yes," Kov confirmed, taking the seat next to Trip, "the Romulans must be stopped, and I wish to do my part."

"I see," Trip said, although he really didn't. "Just out of curiosity, why not join Vulcan's fleet?"

"They would not have me. Not with my past association with the v'tosh ka'tur. But even if I could serve in the Vulcan fleet, my preference would still be Starfleet."

Trip was mystified. "Why?"

"From the start of the war, Romulan strategy was clearly directed at Earth, even though Earth was militarily the weakest member of the Coalition. The Romulans realize that Earth is the glue holding the coalition together. Defeat Earth, and the Coalition falls apart."

"That's all well and good," Trip agreed, "but it doesn't explain why you would want to join Starfleet."

"Vulcan's fleet has had a presence in this region of space for hundreds of years, yet what have they done in that time?" Kov answered his own question, "They have fought two wars and countless skirmishes with the Andorians. Meanwhile, Nausicaan raiders and other pirates still prey on merchant ships throughout the sector. The Orion Syndicate is virtually unchecked as it traffics in slavery and drugs. The Romulans and Klingons built ever-larger military forces without opposition. It appears to me that Starfleet has done more good in this sector in just a few short years than the Vulcan fleet has in centuries. That is why I wish to join Starfleet."

"It sounds like you've given the matter some thought," Trip conceded. "Still... you'll be living with humans. Constantly. On a ship. There'll be no escape from us. Are you _sure_?"

"I am sure. Humans are certainly worth the effort. Look at the way Commander T'Pol has been accepted by Starfleet. What other species is so tolerant? Would Vulcan give _you_ command of a ship, much less a commission in their service? Would the Andorians? The Tellarites? You know the answer. Only Starfleet is so open."

Trip regarded Kov silently for several moments. _He may have embraced Vulcan disciplines_, Trip thought, _but the passion is still there, not far beneath the surface_. "I will give you my recommendation," Trip said, "and I will ask T'Pol to give you one, as well. With _her_ recommendation, Starfleet will not say no."

"Thank you, Commander. I appreciate that." Kov paused, before continuing in a more hesitant voice, "How is Commander T'Pol?"

Trip had to grin. Kov was just about the most transparent Vulcan he had ever met. "You mean 'how is Mrs. Tucker', don't you?"

Kov dropped his eyes. If he had been human, he would have blushed. "Yes. I am sorry, Commander, I do not mean to pry."

"No need to apologize. If you're going to live among humans, you need to learn that it's not a breach of privacy to ask someone how his wife and kids are."

Kov's eyes enlarged fractionally. "Kids? Children? I had not heard--"

"No, no. No kids. It's a figure of speech," Trip said, laughing. "But in answer to your question, Commander T'Pol is doing very well. And so is Mrs. Tucker. In fact, I'm pleased to say she is quite satisfied with our relationship."

Kov seemed pleased as well, in his subdued Vulcan fashion. "I am gratified to hear that. I was astonished when I first learned of your marriage to Commander T'Pol, as were all Vulcans. News of the event spread quickly, though many of my people did not approve."

"Yes, so I've been told."

Kov hesitated again, "Is it true what I have heard? Do you share a mating bond with Commander T'Pol?"

"It's true."

"That is also astonishing," Kov stated. "Your people show no evidence of telepathic abilities. Most Vulcans are convinced that rumors of your bond are exaggerated; that a true mating bond between a Vulcan and a human is not possible."

"I assure you, telepathic abilities or not, my bond with T'Pol is quite real, and also quite strong. And only slightly modified from the Vulcan norm."

"In what way is it modified?" Kov's eyes were bright with interest.

_For a Vulcan, he seems to be unusually curious about this topic_, Trip thought, but he obliged him with an answer, "Human males have a strong attraction to the opposite sex. That attraction continues after marriage; it's a biological imperative. By comparison, bonded Vulcans lose all desire for anyone other than their mates. T'Pol is completely uninterested in any man but me--it's hard-coded into her genes. I, on the other hand, still feel some attraction to other women."

Kov could barely believe what he was hearing. "Even with the bond?"

"Yes, even with the bond. I'm wired that way. It's human nature."

"Commander T'Pol must have been very disturbed when she discovered this." For some reason, Kov seemed to be unsettled by what Trip was telling him.

Trip nodded in agreement. "She was mortified. Her first thought was that something was wrong with our bond, and that scared the hell out of her."

"I can well understand her fear. For a Vulcan, any dysfunction in the bond with your mate is a terrible thing," Kov confirmed.

"Yes. It took me a while, but I finally explained to her what it _really_ meant. Now, she is quite content with the nature of our bond." _More than content_, Trip added to himself. _She cherishes its nature_.

"I do not see how any Vulcan could be content with such a bond."

"I'll try to explain," Trip said. He paused to consider how to phrase his thoughts in a manner a Vulcan would understand, "There was a moment when T'Pol had to make a conscious choice to take me as her mate. It was the biggest decision she has ever made, or will ever make, because it was permanent. There was no going back. Once she chose, the bond made her choice irrevocable."

Trip continued as Kov listened, raptly. "I made that same choice. I chose T'Pol to be my partner, my soul-mate, my wife. But unlike T'Pol, I do not make that choice just one time; I must make it every day. Every day, of every year, for the rest of my life. And every day, I choose _her_, over all others. Now do you understand?"

"Yes," Kov said, slowly, "yes, I believe I do." He was silent for a moment before continuing, "but I do not understand how _you_ could contemplate such a choice while bonded to T'Pol."

"I'm no expert on Vulcan mating bonds, but I tend to believe that our bond would dissolve if I were to stop caring for T'Pol. At least my side of the bond, anyway. That may sound shocking to a Vulcan, but it's a hard, cold reality of human relationships. To put it in other words, I don't love T'Pol because we're bonded, we're bonded because I love her."

As Trip suspected they might, his words seemed to upset Kov. "Commander, do married human females have a similar biological attraction to other men?" he asked.

"To some degree. It's certainly not as strong." Suspicion bloomed in Trip's mind as the implication of Kov's question sank in, "Now, wait just a second... Kov, you're not... You are! Kov, you're thinking of taking a human mate!"

Kov appeared startled that Trip had so easily discerned his intentions, but did not deny it. "It is doubtful I could ever find a mate among my own kind. Not with my background. My own childhood betrothal did not survive my time with the v'tosh ka'tur. Logically, it seems a human female is my best, perhaps my only, option."

Trip whistled. "You need to have a long talk with T'Pol and me. There's a LOT you need to know that we can tell you."

"I concur," Kov said, "however, my remaining time here is short. My ship departs in a few hours."

"In that case, promise me that T'Pol and I will get an invitation to the wedding."

"I would be honored to have you both present, if such an event ever occurs."

"And, Kov?"

"Yes Commander?"

"Be very careful. Remember, _you_ can only choose once. _She_ must choose every day."

"I--I will remember."

#####

It was late when T'Pol returned to _Chosin _from the op brief. She had expected a marathon, and Admiral Chu had not disappointed. Her first stop after her return was the bridge, for a quick update from the watch officer. The bridge was deserted, except for Ensign Koussa and Chief Verley. They were sitting and talking quietly, each holding a mug of coffee. They stood when T'Pol entered the room.

"Evening, Khart-lan," Koussa said.

"Please, keep your seats," T'Pol told them. "What is our status, Ensign Koussa?"

"Everything's quiet, ma'am. Nothing to report."

"Very well. I will see you in the morning." She turned to leave, but stopped at a question from Chief Verley.

"Do we have a mission, Captain?"

"Yes, Chief."

"Is it a lulu?"

"No Chief. This one, I believe, is a humdinger."

Verley grinned. "Oh my. That bad? We skipped doozy, and went straight to humdinger?"

"Yes. Second and Third Fleets are being deployed to Eta Corvi for a strike at Rho Virginis. A small Task Force will remain behind at Lalande III to impede the pending Romulan attack, and to inflict as much damage on the attacking forces as possible. _Chosin_ will be part of that Task Force.

"Who will be in charge?"

"Captain Makaroff, on _Redoubtable._"

Verley grunted. "He'll do. Has a cool head on his shoulders."

"He struck me as a competent officer," T'Pol agreed.

"How many ships in the task force?"

"Nineteen. The cruiser _Redoubtable,_ seven frigates, and eleven corvettes."

Verley shook his head, "You were right Captain, this one's a humdinger. Nineteen ships to slow down the main Romulan effort? That's like sending a mouse to slow down a lion."

"Or sending a frigate against a Battle Group?" T'Pol suggested, in her most innocuous tone.

Verley and Koussa both chuckled at her veiled reference to the Pearl Haven raid. "Yes, ma'am, or that," Verley said. "One thing's for sure, you still know how to draw the tough assignments."

"It is a talent I would just as soon not possess," T'Pol said, dryly. "Captain Makaroff has called a meeting of all his Commanders for tomorrow at 1300. I would like you to accompany me. I will want your opinion of his op order." Over the course of the war, T'Pol had come to rely heavily on Chief Verley's judgment in matters pertaining to planning and operations. He seemed to have a genius for it.

"I'll be there," Verley said. "Would you like the Board of Dirty Tricks to meet afterward?"

The Board of Dirty Tricks was the name Chief Verley had given to a group of _Chosin's_ crew--officers and enlisted--that met before every operation, employing a human technique called 'Brainstorming'. The Captain and her Department Heads were all permanent members, as were most of the senior enlisted personnel on board. The rest of the board members were drawn from _Chosin's_ junior enlisted ranks, and served on a rotating basis, according to a schedule that only Chief Verley seemed to understand. The official mission statement of the board was to 'Confound, confuse and bemuse the forces of the Romulan Star Empire wherever we may find them, through the judicious application of various schemes, preferably those that are foul, dirty, sneaky, underhanded, or just plain unfair.'

Meetings of the board tended to be boisterous affairs. There were only two rules: Rank had no meaning while the board was in session, and no suggestion was too stupid or outlandish to be mentioned. T'Pol became secretly convinced that several board members were deliberately trying to find exceptions to the second rule.

It was hard for T'Pol to understand how anything productive could come from the uncontrolled chaos of these brainstorming sessions, and yet... and yet there had never been a meeting of the Board where she had not come away with modifications to her plans, some of them quite significant.

She vividly recalled one meeting of the board, when Ensign Walder had complained that sometimes she lost her subspace data link with Second Fleet when the countermeasure drones were launched. She had demanded that something be done about it. Trip had explained how interactions between the ship's and a drone's warp fields could create a series of collapsing subspace bubbles, and proceeded to describe the pertinent warp equations. Chief Verley cut him off when he noticed everyone's eyes glazing over. Trip had lapsed into an uncharacteristic silence while he doodled on his PADD, oblivious to the bedlam around him. A good half-hour later, he looked up and announced loudly, to the room at large, "Subspace Chaff."

The comment was so wildly out-of-place that everyone at the meeting stopped talking and turned to stare at him.

He elaborated in the ensuing silence. "I've figured out a way to create sub-space chaff. We build a torpedo with two warp reactors. If the two fields are properly modulated, they will create the same kind of disturbance that we see when the drones are deployed. It will create an affect that acts like a smokescreen to long-range sensors."

T'Pol was very familiar with the concept of chaff. Coalition ships made heavy use of chaff rockets, which were effective against electromagnetic sensors, but useless against subspace sensors. She had immediately grasped the tactical significance of a device like Trip was describing, and his idea had been forwarded to Starfleet. A crash program was instituted, and prototypes, based on the Mark 2 torpedo with a second warp drive in lieu of a warhead, were rushed to the field.

The Romulan fleet was completely unprepared for what they encountered in their first attack on Beta Hydri. Their subspace sensors were rendered ineffective, seriously degrading their fire control and torpedo guidance systems. The Romulan fleet was decisively defeated, and Beta Hydri remained in Coalition hands for several more months. It was the first time in the war that a Romulan Fleet had been denied it's objective. It was also a psychological turning point; the moment when Romulan victory no longer seemed assured, and the idea of a Coalition victory was suddenly more than just wishful thinking.

"Have the Board convene at 1800 tomorrow," T'Pol said, in answer to Verley's question. "That should leave us ample time to return from Makaroff's meeting."

"Aye, Captain."

"If you need me, I will be in my quarters."

"Yes, ma'am. Good night, ma'am."

T'Pol left the bridge, and went down one level to her stateroom. Trip was at the data terminal, working through the items in his in-box.

"Hey, darling. How was the op brief?"

"We received a mission."

"Is it a lulu or a doozy?" Trip asked.

"It is a humdinger."

"Ahhh. That figures. _Chosin_ always gets the tough ones."

"That is what Chief Verley said," T'Pol remarked. "Would you care to hear the details?"

"Not right now. I assume there will be a meeting of the Board?"

"Yes."

"Then I'll hear all about it at the Board. Right now, I only need to know one thing: Do we leave before next Tuesday?

"No. We probably have three weeks."

Trip grinned. "Good. Because I just got a message that the USO has a show coming to Starbase 7 next Tuesday. We're going."

"Trip. I will not go."

"T'Pol, you _have_ to go. You're the Captain. The whole crew will be there."

"I do not wish to become part of Mr. Digby's comedic act."

"That's good, because Digby won't be there."

"There will be no comedian?"

Trip hesitated. "Uh, well, yeah, there'll be a comedian. But it won't be Digby."

"I will not go," T'Pol said, reaffirming her position.

"But you'll be missing out on all the fun."

T'Pol shrugged.

"You need to consider--" Trip stopped mid-sentence, his point completely forgotten, "T'Pol, did you just shrug?

"Yes. I've found it to be a useful gesture. Whenever I am uncertain how to respond to an inane human comment, I can just shrug."

"That's very--Hey, wait a minute! What do you mean, inane?"

"I mean pointless, purposeless. Devoid of intelligence--"

"I know what the word means, T'Pol."

"Did you not ask?"

Trip grinned and rubbed a hand through his hair. "Okay. That's it. I'm putting my foot down. You're going, and I will not take no for an answer."

T'Pol regarded Trip with what he called her 'Vulcan eyes'. "Trip, have you ever been attacked by a moose?"

Trip was rendered completely speechless by the incongruous nature of her question, and T'Pol seized the opportunity to change the subject. "Do you know what today is?" she asked.

All thoughts of the USO show and rampaging mooses (though Trip resolved to inquire about _that_ later) fled from his mind. "Of course, darling. Our anniversary. You didn't think I'd forget, did you?"

"You are only human, as you are so fond of reminding me when you forget other things of equal import."

"T'Pol, nothing else is of equal import. Not to me."

"Nor to me, my love. Remain there; do not move." T'Pol crossed the room and opened a drawer, removing an unadorned wooden box.

"According to my research, the customary gift for a fourth wedding anniversary is fruit or flowers." She extended the box to Trip.

Trip opened the box. Within were many small, colorful fruit, looking somewhat like multi-colored grapes. "They are called hirat," T'Pol said, "They grow wild in the southern lowlands of the Gol province. I hope you enjoy them as much as I enjoyed the gift of Georgia peaches you once gave me."

"They look good," Trip said, examining the fruit more closely, "where in the world did you get them?"

"There is a squadron of Vulcan cruisers attached to Second Fleet. They were pleased to help when I explained my purpose."

"We've come a long way, darling," Trip pointed out. "There was a time, not that long ago, when they would have been decidedly _unpleased_ to help you find an appropriate gift for your human husband."

"Indeed. As much tragedy and destruction as this war has caused, it has also undeniably strengthened the bonds of respect and understanding between all Coalition members. I wonder if the Romulans realize just how badly they have miscalculated?"

Trip popped a hirat into his mouth. It was less juicy than a grape--more pulpy but also sweeter. "Mmmm. Not bad," he observed, "Thank you, T'Pol."

"You are welcome, my love."

"T'Pol, we had a traditional human wedding. Do you ever regret not having a Vulcan ceremony?"

"I had a Vulcan ceremony. You must remember--you were there."

Trip grimaced as he recalled the day T'Pol was joined with Koss in a marriage of convenience. It was not a day he remembered with fondness. "I try to forget that day," he said. "It was the day I thought I had lost you forever."

T'Pol raised a hand and lightly touched his cheek. "_I_ will never forget that day," she replied. "It was the day I found you forever. The day our bond first formed. Koss may have been kneeling before me, but in my heart and mind, the vows were for _you_, my love. In that moment, I knew there would never be anyone else for me. It is a moment I will always cherish."

Trip was silent as he absorbed the feelings of love and contentment that flowed through the light touch on his face. T'Pol let her hand return to her side. "If past history is a guide, you also have a gift that you are 'just itching' to give to me."

Trip blinked rapidly, and swallowed to relieve the tightness that gripped his throat. "Uh, yes, I do. Stand here," He said pointing to the deck in front of him.

He took both of her hands into his, and looked directly into her eyes. Then he cleared his throat and began speaking in Vulcan. "You, of all people, know my heart. You know my mind. You know that I am free to take anyone I wish as my partner. But this I now proclaim, before you, and before God, and upon my honor: T'Pol of clan _Sh'hiran'lin'iijyliunh'rei'iy'iukn'hy'wen'lhia'ehrm'n, _daughter of T'Les, Captain of _Chosin;_ on this day, at this moment, I choose you, above all others, to be my bonded mate and life partner. As I choose you now, I will choose you again, every moment of every day for the rest of my life. You will forever be my chosen one. T'Pol--_my_ T'Pol--my K'diwa, I am proud to call you adun'a."

T'Pol looked deep into Trip's eyes as he spoke, and felt the warmth of his katra through the hands clasping hers. She could feel emotions surging up from her Vulcan heart; emotions, powerful and unquenchable, that once unleashed, she would be unable to control. At that moment, she also had a choice to make. She could exercise her Vulcan disciplines, and contain the insurgent emotions, or she could allow them free reign, trusting that her adun--her Trip!--would not allow her to be harmed by them. With a sense of exultation that she, perhaps uniquely among her kind, could make such a choice, she gave herself over to her emotions and into the hands of her mate.

**Continued in Chapter 11**


	11. Chapter 11

**Command**

**Author:** Transwarp

**Rating:** PG-13

**Genre:** Action/Drama

**Disclaimer:** Paramount owns Star Trek names, and related intellectual property.

**Summary:** War breaks out with the Romulan Empire, and T'Pol assumes command of a Starfleet frigate. This is the third story in a series (order of stories: 'Commissioning', then 'Liaison', then 'Command').

**ELEVEN**  
_Chosin_, with 2nd Fleet at Lalande III, 14 Feb 2159

Trip tried not to scowl as he glanced over the daily maintenance report. Three years of intense combat had taken its toll on _Chosin_--she had been pounded by disruptor fire; rocked by torpedo near-misses; shaken by internal explosions from overloaded power junctions; her engines stressed from running in the red for days at a time. Every component had been pushed beyond design limits, every system operated on the ragged edge of safety. Only the constant vigilance of her bleary-eyed engineers had kept her from any number of catastrophic failures.

Trip knew all this. He knew there were only so many hours in the day, only so many hands to do the work. He knew that repairs for non-essential systems had to go on the back-burner. He knew it, but he didn't like it. It offended his sensibilities as a starship engineer to have ANY equipment on his ship that was not one-hundred percent functional.

While he scanned through the list, his three Division Officers waited patiently for their marching orders. It was, he reflected, a mere formality; after three years working for him, they knew his priorities without having to be told. _Well, three years for Saracco and Hoefler. A year-and-a-half for Ensign Green._

He reached the bottom of the list and looked up, setting the PADD on the desk in his office outside of main engineering. "This time, I'm not gonna tell you what to do," he announced, "I'm gonna let you tell me. You first, Luisa."

Lieutenant Saracco nodded. "Yessir. We're still seeing that phase imbalance between the warp nacelles, but I've got an idea that might work better than tweaking the field geometry."

"Let's hear it."

"Uh, well, they've been slightly out of phase ever since we installed that Vulcan force-shield generator next to the warp core. We had to reroute the port plasma conduit to get around it, so I figure if we just lengthen the starboard conduit to match, it should put them back in phase."

Trip nodded as Saracco spoke. "Should work. It'll take several hours to splice a new section of plasma conduit into the feed lines. And you'll have to take care that you get _exactly_ the right length, with no discontinuities in the magnetic containment."

"Yes sir, I was kind of hoping you could help with that part..."

"Come get me when you're ready to put it back together."

"Will do. Thank you, sir."

"Anything else?"

"The usual. I've got Schmitt and Levinson in the starboard nacelle running insulation tests on the mag-coils. There are several sections reading below one-hundred Megohms. They're foaming the wires, since we can't get replacements. Cox and Farley are turning the injectors. Can't get replacements for them, either."

"Chief Verley might have a lead on one; see him before the morning supply run."

"Aye, sir." Saracco made a notation in her PADD.

"Fred, what do you have going?" Trip asked, shifting his gaze to his Electrical DivO.

"Number one on my list is tracking down the power spikes we're seeing when the force-shields are running. Might be a power cap about to fail." Hoefler gave Trip a hopeful look, "We're down to our last two spares. Any chance Chief Verley could work his supply magic for me?"

Trip snorted. "You can ask, but don't hold your breath. What else?"

"The shuttlepod's power module is drifting off-voltage at high loads. Not sure what's wrong, yet. I've got Leach on it." Hoefler hesitated before broaching the next item, "And, uh, I'm putting Pope on the short in the starboard water treatment unit."

Trip grimaced. The treatment unit wasn't exactly the highest priority on the list, but it had been down for a week, and the crew was understandably tired of being on water hours. Hell, _he_ was tired of being on water hours. "Okay. Get it fixed."

Trip turned to receive Ensign Green's input, but flinched as a wave of intense emotion slammed him from his bond with T'Pol. Reflexively, his mental barriers flew up, protecting him from the potent Vulcan feelings. T'Pol had clearly been jolted by something extremely unpleasant.

Trip stood, trying very hard not to look as concerned as he felt. "Captain needs to see me," he explained, "Luisa, take over." He hurried out, not waiting for her response.

The three officers exchanged perplexed glances, then Lieutenant Saracco smoothly picked up where her Chief Engineer had left off. "So, Lewis, what's planned for Hull Division?"

#####

T'Pol sent off the last of her daily reports, then turned her attention to the next item in her in-box, a Situation Report from Second Fleet. Most of the SitRep was a rehash of what she had learned at Chu's last Op Brief, but she noted with interest that _Enterprise_ would be departing for the Eta Corvi salient in three days. The next item gave her pause; a report of a combat action off of Eta Corvi. A frigate on picket duty had been engaged and destroyed by three Romulan scouts. The frigate was _USS Arnhem, _lost with all hands.

_That is Lieutenant Ashcroft's ship_, T'Pol recalled. He was a former subordinate of her's, assigned to Science Division on _Enterprise._ He was also working to finish a research paper on the formation of neutron stars. T'Pol found his thesis to be meticulously researched, well-reasoned, and highly creative. After his transfer from _Enterprise_, she had agreed to continue reviewing his work. In fact, she had just received his latest update, not two days before.

She ignored the unsettled feeling that threatened her equilibrium, and ran a quick check of the latest casualty report. Line fourteen of the alphabetical listing confirmed her worst fears: _Ashcroft, Dale, Lieutenant. USS Arnhem. KIA, 13 Feb 2159_

She stared at his name, and the familiar ache of grief welled up within her. She firmly pushed it back down, as she had so many times before. Too many times.

Some of the lost she had known very well--twenty-nine from _Chosin, _fourteen from _Enterprise._ Some she knew a little, or not at all--entire ships, lost. Entire _squadrons_ lost. And now, _this_.

She recalled Ashcroft as he had been on _Enterprise: _an enthusiastic young Ensign with an unconventional attitude and a very human grin. So m_uch promise_, she remembered, s_o much potential, forever lost. Such terrible, terrible waste..._

Without warning, her familiar grief morphed into something darker and more primal. Something her people rigorously and meticulously distanced themselves from, and had for nearly two thousand years: _Hate._

It erupted quickly, taking her by surprise and overwhelming her defenses. Her hands clenched into fists, and her face contorted into an ugly mask. At that moment, had it been within her power, she would have consigned the entire Romulan race to oblivion. _They have caused so much destruction, so much death, so much pain, so much... __**so much**__..._

*T'Pol! What is it darling? What's wrong?*

The touch of her bond-mate's mind calmed and strengthened her, cutting through the incandescent rage that had seized her. She took a deep breath--more of a ragged gasp, really--and fought to regain her control.

Trip burst through the door of her office, concern etched on his face. She looked up from her desk, eyes wide. Her hands still shook from the intensity of the experience.

"T'Pol?"

She slowly inhaled. "Lieutenant Ashcroft is dead."

He knelt beside her, taking her hands into his own, feeling her draw on his strength.

"How many more, Trip?" she asked, "How many more of our young must we lose before this ends?"

"I--I don't know, T'Pol."

Her eyes drifted back to her console. "I felt _hatred_, Trip," she whispered. "I wanted to kill them all. Every living Romulan. I wanted to commit _genocide_." She made no attempt to hide her shame from him.

He stroked the tops of her hands with his thumbs, "It's okay. That's how I felt after the Xindi attack, remember? You helped me get through that; I can help you get through this. Hate is emotional acid, T'Pol. It will consume you from the inside out, if you let it."

"I will not. I do not wish to feel THAT ever again." She stood and let Trip pull her into a hug. She leaned into him, arms wrapped tightly around his chest.

Trip nuzzled the top of her head, "Someday, darling, we'll mourn those we've lost," he murmured. "All of them. Someday, we'll have the time to do it right. I promise."

"Yes. _Yes,"_ she agreed, fiercely, "we will grieve them properly. We will honor their sacrifices in the manner they deserve. Someday..."

She gave him a final squeeze, then stepped back, her equilibrium restored. "Thank you, Trip."

"You're welcome," he said. "Tonight we'll get in some quality meditation. Right now, I'm needed back in Engineering."

T'Pol watched as he left, then returned to her desk. It was clear now what she must do: when she had the chance, she would complete Lieutenant Ashcroft's paper, and she would see it published. In his name.

#####

_Enterprise_, with 2nd Fleet at Lalande III, 14 Feb 2159

Captain Archer took a helping of mashed potatoes and passed the platter into Trip's waiting hands. "Is it my imagination, or have I seen the two of you more since you went to _Chosin_ than I did while you were here on _Enterprise?_"

"I suspect it is your imagination," T'Pol replied, "still, it is fortuitous that _Chosin_ and _Enterprise_ are both assigned to Second Fleet. It has provided us many opportunities to remain in contact." T'Pol shot Trip a disapproving look as he heaped three times the volume of mashed potatoes onto his plate than he actually required, but she refrained from nudging him. She had learned there were certain times he would simply disregard her wishes, and she knew this to be one of those times. 'Moderation in all things,' he would tell her, '_including_ moderation.' A very un-Vulcan philosophy, but one she had subscribed to herself, on more than one occasion.

Trip passed the platter on to Hoshi, who placed a bird-like portion on her plate before handing it to Malcolm. He attacked the platter with gusto, seemingly determined to empty the remaining contents onto his own plate.

"Malcolm," Hoshi said, a light frown touching her lips.

Malcolm looked up and saw the admonition in her eyes. His spoon, nearly concealed beneath an enormous glob of potatoes, wavered on its third journey to his plate. It paused, started back toward the platter, paused again, then continued on toward the plate. A dull 'plop' announced its arrival.

Hoshi's eyes narrowed, but she said nothing. Malcolm's rebellious act had been noted, and would be dealt with later.

Trip couldn't resist fanning the flames, "Mal, next time just dump _your_ plate onto the platter. It would certainly be quicker."

Malcolm decided his best defense was a strong offense. He glanced pointedly at the mound of mashed potatoes on Trip's plate, only marginally smaller than his own. "A little of the pot calling the kettle black, don't you think?"

"Not at all," Trip replied, grinning. He motioned at his plate, then at Malcolm's, "What we have here is the fine line between a hearty appetite and outright gluttony."

"More like a classic case of self-delusion, I'd say," Malcolm retorted.

Archer chuckled. "Let's hold off on the recriminations, shall we? I'm afraid a food fight might break out, and I'd have a hard time explaining THAT to the Admiral." T'Pol met Archer's eyes across the table, and a moment of understanding flashed between them as they shared the same thought: _It is good to be with friends_.

Trip put on his best indignant expression. "I think Jon just implied we were a couple of juveniles."

Malcolm snorted, "What do you mean, WE? I am completely innocent; I just want to eat my mashed potatoes in peace."

"Never let it be said I came between Malcolm and his mashed potatoes," Archer said. "While you eat, let me point out that it's been, uh, nearly eight years since Enterprise's maiden voyage. Eight years, right T'Pol?"

"Seven years, eight months and twenty-eight days, Jonathon."

"Right." Archer shook his head, "I sure miss having you around, T'Pol. I got accustomed to asking you whenever I needed to know something. Now I have to look things up myself."

"Self-sufficiency is a desirable trait," T'Pol said, in her Proper Vulcan Voice.

"Yes," Archer agreed, "but so is having friends around that you can rely on. I guess what I'm trying to say is that we--all of us here, and a few that aren't--we made a hell of a team."

"I'd drink to that," Malcolm said, "if we had anything other than water and tea."

Archer smiled sadly, "Sorry, Mal. My private stock ran dry a couple of years ago, and I haven't been able to replenish it. It may have escaped your notice, but there _is_ a war going on."

"I think I might have heard something about that," Malcolm replied.

"I'm sure you have. You _are_ First Officer of Second Fleet's flagship, after all. And Hoshi is head of Operations Department." He looked directly at her, "When you first reported aboard Enterprise, did you ever imagine you would someday be a Department Head?"

Hoshi shook her head, "I barely imagined I would complete that first mission," she murmured.

"Travis--_Lieutenant Commander_ Mayweather--is commanding a corvette with First Fleet, in the Eta Corvi salient. Phlox is the best surgeon in this quadrant; I couldn't begin to count all the lives he's saved. Trip is Chief Engineer of the fastest ship in Starfleet, and the object of an ongoing tug-of-war between BuShips and Admiral Chu. He has also been instrumental in integrating shared Vulcan technology into Starfleet engines. I daresay even the Vulcans have learned a thing or two from him."

Trip held up both hands in a self-deprecating pose. "No applause, people, no applause..."

Archer clapped three times before continuing, "Commander Kelby is Chief Engineer of a cruiser with Third Fleet, and Lieutenant Commander Hess is Chief Engineer of _Enterprise_."

Trip looked up from his plate in astonishment, "No sh--" He bit off his remark at a mental nudge from T'Pol, and rephrased his statement, "No kidding? Anna got promoted? When?"

"Last week," Archer said. "You didn't know?"

"Perhaps if you were more diligent in checking your messages, you would not have been surprised," T'Pol suggested, gently.

Trip shrugged. "Yeah, you're right. I just get busy, is all."

"I see some things haven't changed," Archer said, smiling, "but if you'll bear with me just a little longer, this old Captain hasn't finished his tawdry, maudlin recollections of the good old days."

Malcolm snickered and Trip rolled his eyes. Each was preparing an appropriate barb with which to skewer Archer's mawkishness, but T'Pol spoke first. "Jonathon, your recollections are neither tawdry nor maudlin. They are cherished memories of significant times, of which I am honored to have been a part."

Malcolm and Trip's caustic barbs remained unspoken. To deliver them on the heels of T'Pol's gracious remark would only have made them appear boorish. Of course, fear of looking boorish was usually not enough to dissuade them--especially the irreverent Trip--but in this case they both wholeheartedly agreed with T'Pol's statement.

"Thank you, T'Pol," Archer said. Once he would have been slack-jawed with amazement at having his sentimentality defended by a Vulcan, but he had long-since become accustomed to her understanding and acceptance of human emotions. Paradoxical though it was, it seemed to Archer that the longer T'Pol was around humans, the more Vulcan she became; calmer, more centered, more self-assured. He was genuinely happy for her, happy that she could find any contentment at all in the midst of a brutal war.

"And while I'm on the subject of how well the old team has done, how about you, T'Pol? Captain of a frigate, forty-one confirmed kills, four Starfleet unit citations. You're tearing 'em up out there. It's obvious you were paying attention, all those years as my First Officer."

"Indeed. When I must make a decision, I just ask myself what you would do. Then I do the opposite."

Archer had to smile. The impish glint in T'Pol's eyes removed any sting her words might have had. He ignored Trip's and Malcolm's jeers; they were clearly encouraging each other's bad behavior, and had been since the mashed potato platter went around. Of the four, Hoshi was least familiar with T'Pol's hard-earned facility at human banter. Her eyes widened in surprise and delight.

"I guess I earned that," Archer said, with a chuckle. "This is clearly a case of the student exceeding the teacher."

"No, Jonathon. _Chosin's_ crew is at least the equal of what we had on _Enterprise_. I rely heavily on those around me; my successes are theirs."

"Spoken like the proud Captain," Archer said.

"Vulcans do not feel pride. I was simply making a statement of fact."

Trip gave a derisive snort, and Archer's smile broadened into a grin. "Sorry T'Pol," Archer said, "the days of us believing your grand pronouncements of what Vulcans do or don't do are LONG past. You've also said that Vulcan's don't tell jokes, but what was that last crack of yours, if not a joke?"

"An observation."

"See? You did it again--_that_ was a _joke_." Archer's eyes narrowed, "Or is it coming from Trip?" He cast an accusing look in Trip's direction, "Are you feeding her lines across that bond?"

"Wasn't me, Cap'n," Trip mumbled, around a bite of green beans.

"You think me incapable of humor." It was a question, but the way she said it--and her accompanying look--made it sound like an accusation.

Archer reflected on the past eight years, recalling the many times he had been amazed by his Vulcan friend. The fact that he, Henry Archer's son, even HAD a Vulcan friend was amazing in itself. He shook his head, gently. "No, T'Pol. If you must know, I think you're capable of just about anything you put your mind to."

T'Pol acknowledged Archer's compliment with a gracious tilt of her head. Trip beamed with pride.

Further conversation was interrupted by the chime of the comm panel. Archer sent an apologetic look to his guests, and punched the transmit button, "Archer."

"Captain, this is Admiral Chu. Is Commander T'Pol still with you?"

Archer shot a perplexed look at T'Pol, "Yes, sir. She's here."

"Good. Have her stay put. I'm on my way." The connection light winked out.

"I guess the Admiral needs you for something," Archer said. Quite unnecessarily, in T'Pol's opinion.

Admiral Chu arrived within minutes of the call, along with his Chief of Staff, Captain Walker. Chu waved everyone back into their seats as he entered the room. "Sorry for the intrusion, Jon," he said, "but I have a mission for _Chosin_."

T'Pol gazed steadily at Chu as he spoke, "Commander, our pickets have detected two Romulan warships on a course for the Teneebian sector. We believe their intent is to disrupt shipping between Draylax, Teneebia and Earth."

"That is likely, since a large volume of merchant shipping passes through that sector," T'Pol observed. "Both Teneebia and Draylax have strong commercial ties to Earth, and we derive much of our strategic war material from them."

Chu nodded. "We've issued a warning to all Coalition-flagged ships in that area, directing them to head at once for the nearest ports. Sixth Fleet will be charged with organizing convoys and arranging escorts."

"What is it you wish me to do, Admiral?" T'Pol asked, getting right to the point.

"The Andorian freighter _Ketalan_ is twelve days out of Teneebia, bound for Draylax. We have been asked by the Chancellor of Andoria himself to find her and escort her safely back to Teneebia."

T'Pol considered the Admiral's words in silence. It was Archer who asked the obvious question, "Admiral, why is Chancellor Shalin interested in an Andorian freighter?"

"_Ketalan's_ Captain is the Chancellor's only surviving son," Chu answered, "Needless to say, the Chancellor is extremely concerned about his safety."

"How long ago were these Romulan vessels detected?" T'Pol asked, wondering how much of a lead they would have on her.

"The pickets detected their warp signatures two days ago."

T'Pol did the math in her head, and didn't like the answer she got. "The Romulans will most likely target the Draylax-Teneebia shipping lanes first," she reasoned. "Given that they crossed our picket lines two days ago, we may already be too late."

"We may be too late to save _Ketalan_," Chu said, "but we still have to try. And I want those Romulan ships hunted down and destroyed, no matter what."

T'Pol offered another suggestion, "There is a flotilla of Vulcan cruisers attached to Second Fleet. They are each capable of warp seven, _Chosin_ of warp six point six. It would seem prudent to send one of them instead of _Chosin_."

A look of distaste clouded Chu's face, "We already thought of that, and Chancellor Shalin shot it down. He, uh, has a problem with Vulcans. It seems he comes from a military family. He lost his parents, his brother, and his oldest son to skirmishes with the Vulcans. He made it clear that a Vulcan ship was out of the question. He seems... quite irrational on the subject."

T'Pol lifted one eyebrow, "Perhaps I am not the right person for this mission, being Vulcan myself."

"If that's the case, then it's too bad for the Chancellor. _Chosin_ is the fastest ship I've got, and you're her Captain. The mission is yours."

T'Pol nodded her assent, "Very well, Admiral."

"I'm giving you some help," Chu added. "I've dispatched one of the picket ships, USS _Galloway. _A corvette. She's commanded by Lieutenant Commander Hermann Mancusa. As senior officer, you will have operational control of both ships. You will rendezvous with _Galloway_ in the Teneebian sector, at coordinates of your choosing. Do you have any questions?"

"Yes, sir. I have one countermeasure drone remaining. Could I receive additional drones before departing?"

Chu frowned, "I'm sorry, Commander, priority for drones goes to ships bound for Eta Corvi. You'll have to get by with what you have."

"Yes, Admiral. I would also like to review the sensor data from the picket ships. Would it be possible to have it sent to _Chosin_?"

Chu made a quick hand-wave at Captain Walker, "Have it sent," he directed, "the log files and the raw data."

"Aye, Admiral," Walker said, making a note in his PADD.

"When can you break orbit?" Chu asked T'Pol.

She gave Trip a quizzical glance. "Engineering is ready," Trip responded. "Just give me an hour to bring my systems on-line."

"_Chosin_ will be underway within the hour, Admiral."

Chu nodded. "Good hunting, Commander. I want two more Romulan hides I can nail to the shed." Chu turned toward the door.

"We will find them, sir," T'Pol said. "And Admiral?"

Chu paused at the door and looked back, "Yes?"

"Bring them hell at Rho Virginis."

Chu grinned savagely, "I certainly shall, Commander." Then he left, with Captain Walker on his heels.

T'Pol turned back to the table, and was struck by the amused smirks on every face. It was a look she was well acquainted with. "I did not say it right," she concluded.

Archer chuckled. "_Give_ them hell, T'Pol. It's _give_ them hell."

"_Give_ them hell," T'Pol repeated. "I shall remember that."

"Actually, I kind of like 'bring them hell'," Hoshi said. "It makes more sense, linguistically speaking."

"It does at that," Archer agreed, before changing the subject. "Malcolm, how many countermeasure drones does _Enterprise_ have?"

Malcolm shrugged, "Don't know, sir. Ask your Ops Officer."

"Eight, sir," Hoshi replied, an understanding glint in her eye.

"See that _Chosin_ gets a couple of them."

"Aye, Captain."

T'Pol inclined her head, grateful for the gift.

"Well, I guess dinner's over," Archer said, pushing back from the table, "and a shame, too. We had pecan pie lined up for dessert."

Trip groaned, "Damn, I do love pecan pie, especially Chef's. I don't suppose I could get one to go?"

The suddenly somber looks that Archer exchanged with Malcolm and Hoshi were unmistakable. Trip felt ice forming in the pit of his stomach.

"Malcolm?" Archer said, "You didn't tell them?"

"No, sir. I... I didn't. I thought you wanted to tell them."

Archer sighed.

"What happened to Chef?" Trip asked, in a dull voice. _Please, not another death._

"He was killed at Lanus," Archer replied. "Our starboard shield generators were down, the field coils fused. His battle station was with Repair One. They were replacing the coils when a disruptor beam hit--killed Chef and another crewman instantly. I'm sorry. I meant to tell you."

"Yeah, I know." Trip could not hide the bitterness he felt, "I'm sure something came up."

Archer grimaced, but said nothing. There was nothing he _could_ say.

Trip rubbed his forehead with one hand, looking years older than he had just moments before. "Sorry," he relented, "I'll be okay."

T'Pol put a hand on his shoulder. "Trip, we must go," she said, softly.

He nodded, looking down at his unfinished dinner. Silently, he stood to leave, preceding T'Pol out the door. She glanced back as she left, her eyes meeting Archer's. Another moment of mutual understanding passed between them: _Be careful out there._

#####

Lieutenant Graham and Chief Verley were waiting outside the launch bay when T'Pol and Trip returned from _Enterprise_. T'Pol acknowledged their presence with the briefest of nods, but did not break stride as she headed for the bridge. The two fell in alongside her, Graham launching into a breathless monologue, updating his Captain on the status of _Chosin's_ pre-flight preparations. Trip trotted off to engineering, confident that Saracco and Hoefler had things well in hand.

By the time they reached the bridge, Graham had neared the end of his update, and his confident delivery became halting and uncertain, "...all hands are accounted for, but Ops is, um, missing one person. PO3 Trinh is--is still at Starbase 7. He's uh, he's..."

"He's what, Lieutenant?"

Verley resumed the narrative, to Graham's apparent relief. "He's in the brig, Captain. For fighting."

T'Pol came to an abrupt stop, and turned to face them. "Explain."

Verley and Graham exchanged glances, and Verley continued, when it became clear that Graham had no intention of doing so. "Trinh was playing cards in the Starbase 7 rec area. Gambling with two civilians and an Andorian Guardsman. He accused the Andorian of cheating, and a fight ensued. The station Provost Marshal has them both in the brig."

"Was he injured?"

"No ma'am. Just some scrapes and bruises."

"I need him back on board immediately."

Lieutenant Graham finally found his voice, "Uh, I've already talked to the Provost Marshal. She won't release Trinh until she's sorted out the charges. She said it could take a day."

"That is not acceptable," T'Pol declared, bluntly. "I am not leaving on a combat mission without my best helmsman." She set off at a brisk pace back the way she had come, her two subordinates scurrying in her wake.

"Chief Verley, I am expecting a cargo lighter with two countermeasure drones from Enterprise. See that they are received and properly stowed."

"Aye, ma'am."

"Lieutenant Graham, you will complete preparations for getting underway. Request a departure vector from Station Control for 2135. That will give me forty minutes to retrieve Petty Officer Trinh."

"Aye, ma'am."

"I will be at Starbase 7. Contact me immediately if you encounter difficulties."

#####

Starbase 7, 14 Feb 2159

Trinh couldn't make up his mind which ached more--the large bruise on his thigh where that blue bastard had kicked him, or the sore spot on his forehead where he had head-butted the Andorian Guardsman in the face. His decision was complicated by the fact that each injury had a different quality. The first was a dull, throbbing ache; the second, a sharp, stabbing pain.

After much contemplation, he decided the thigh bruise hurt more; after all, the satisfying crunch of the andie's nose under his forehead made _that_ pain well worth enduring. A slow smile spread over his face as he remembered the dazed look in that cheating weasel's eyes as blood gushed from his flattened nose in a violet-blue stream. _He'll think twice before he attacks another Starfleet helmsman_.

"Petty Officer Trinh."

Trinh looked toward the door to his holding cell, and was startled by the sight of his Commanding Officer, arms clasped behind her back and an expression of Vulcan calm on her face. Unfortunately, that calm did not seem to extend to her eyes, which bore into him like a pair of phase-cannons.

"Khart-lan!" He scrambled to his feet and came to rigid attention.

"Let him out," she directed. She was speaking to a Starfleet officer behind her, but her gaze never wavered from Trinh's face. The officer, an Ensign in the Provost Marshal's office, flicked an access card under the lock. With a metallic click, the barred door swung open.

"Let's go." T'Pol turned and walked away at a rapid pace, not looking back to see if Trinh followed. He scrambled to catch up, while butterflies flew complex formations in his stomach. _She is royally pissed_, he realized. Suddenly, his ironclad belief in his own innocence no longer seemed so... ironclad.

"Uh, Khart-lan," Trinh asked, in a conciliatory tone, "Why didn't Lieutenant Graham come get me? Or Chief Verley? I hate that you had to waste your time like this."

T'Pol did not slacken her pace as she answered, "_Chosin_ has a mission to locate and destroy two Romulan commerce raiders. Our scheduled departure is in exactly twenty-seven minutes. Lieutenant Graham does not possess the rank required to gain your immediate release, so I had to come." She fixed him with a hard stare, "You came very close to missing ship's movement, and forcing me to fight the Romulans without my most experienced helmsman."

"I'm sorry, ma'am," Trinh began, eager to explain himself, "but I caught that Andorian rat-bastard CHEATING, and when I called him on it, he--"

T'Pol cut him off. "Petty Officer Trinh, I am not interested in what happened. You will provide the details to Chief Verley, at his convenience. He will decide whether my intervention is required."

"Yes, ma'am," Trinh said, gulping.

The remainder of the trip back to _Chosin_ was made in strained silence.

#####

_Chosin_, en-route to Teneebian sector, 15 Feb 2159

T'Pol glanced up briefly from her terminal and motioned toward the chair by her desk. Her eyes returned to her screen while Trip slipped into the indicated seat.

"Whatcha got?" he asked. It had to be pretty important for her to call him away from the never-ending list of repairs needed to keep _Chosin_ in fighting trim.

She swiveled her terminal so Trip could clearly see the screen. "This is the sensor data from the picket ship that detected the Romulan raiders. How many ships does it show?"

Trip studied the data in silence for several seconds. "It's kind of fuzzy, but it appears to be two ships," he said.

"Yes. But at that range, there is a possibility for error, especially if the ships are in a tight formation."

"True." Trip leaned in and gave the data a closer look. "You think there are more?"

T'Pol nodded. "I do."

"So, what do you have in mind?"

"In the past, I have applied adaptive algorithms to enhance my astrometric scans. I believe the same algorithms can be applied to these subspace scans."

Trip considered her words, then raised the obvious objection. "These results have already been processed by the picket ship's tactical sensors," he said, nodding at the screen. "Unless you have the raw data, further processing will be pointless."

"I have the raw data."

"Good. I presume you also have an algorithm in mind?"

"I would like to try a Spol-T'Sel quadratic modifier--I believe you know it as a Kalman filter--but I am doubtful that a simple linear prediction model will be adequate for warp field readings."

"It won't." Trip leaned forward, and grabbed a PADD from T'Pol's desk. He had that look in his eye; distant, yet intense. It was the look he got when a particularly juicy engineering problem had engaged his interest. "Given a probable source location and a Gaussian error distribution, I think I can give you the transforms to predict field readings from a single ship. They're definitely non-linear. Throw in multiple sources with near-field interactions, and it'll get ugly. Fast."

He looked up when T'Pol didn't answer. She was just watching him, an unreadable expression on her face. "What?" he asked.

"I have missed working with you like this," she said, simply. "I am savoring the moment."

"Yeah, we do work well together."

"Indeed."

"Only this time, _I_ get to be the brains," Trip said, oozing smugness. "Maybe I'll send you for some coffee, while I ponder the problem."

"You are minimizing my contribution to this project?"

Trip snorted, "Correct me if I'm wrong, but doesn't your contribution to this project consist of pulling an algorithm out of a cookbook?"

"Cookbook?"

"Yeah, for algorithms. Just find the one you need, and follow the steps..." his voice trailed off, and a thoughtful look crossed his face.

"If you are done attempting to 'get' me, perhaps we can get back to determining exactly how many Romulan ships we are facing."

Trip, however, was not done. "Yeah, yeah, in a minute," he said, grinning broadly, "Speaking of cookbooks, I just realized I violated my mom's first tenant for evaluating a potential spouse: I don't know if you can cook."

"A most regrettable lapse on your part, for I cannot cook."

T'Pol's expression was completely serious, and Trip's grin began to fade.

"In fact," she continued, "my mother banned me from the kitchen following an unfortunate incident when some dahla root stew I prepared necessitated medical intervention for our family."

Trip's grin was completely gone, and a look of horror was in the initial stages of formation.

"But for you, my love, I am willing to persevere until I have mastered the art, no matter how many years it might take."

The look of horror was now completely formed.

T'Pol took a moment to savor the effect of her words before letting Trip off the hook. "I 'got' you," she announced, with satisfaction. If it was possible for a Vulcan to look smug, she did.

"Yeah, you got me," Trip growled, "now get me some coffee." His words were gruff, but he made certain T'Pol could feel his pride and amusement through the bond.

"I shall return soon with your coffee, my husband. Try not to strain your impressive intellect in my absence." With that, she sauntered out the door.

Trip whistled once in admiration, his eyes following her well-proportioned form as she left the room, then he got down to work.

Eight hours later, they had their answer. After filtering out subspace noise, sensor artifacts, and effects from near-field distortions, the warp signatures of four Foxtrot-class warbirds were clearly visible.

T'Pol stared silently at the data for a long moment, then pressed a button on her comm panel. "T'Pol to Verley."

"Verley here, Captain."

"Chief, I require an immediate meeting of the Board of Dirty Tricks. Notify me when they are ready."

"Aye, Captain."

#####

_Chosin_, en-route to Teneebian sector, 16 Feb 2159

"Khart-lan, I give you the Photonic Six-Pack!"

PO3 Hodges, _Chosin's_ senior Torpedo Tech, backed away from the indicated device to allow T'Pol a closer look. Commander Tucker and Chief Verley stood off to one side, observing the proceedings with interest.

T'Pol approached the device slowly, walking completely around it while examining it from top to bottom. Superficially, it appeared to be nothing more than six Mark 3 photonic torpedoes, stacked two-abreast on a wheeled cargo pallet and secured by a pair of nylon cargo straps. It was the fruit of yesterday's Board meeting--yet another human innovation in the art of war and destruction.

The crew had taken to calling it a photonic six-pack, or just six-pack. (No human project could go unnamed, and it sometime seemed to T'Pol that more effort was expended in finding a 'cool' name for a project than on the project itself.)

The six-pack's operation was ingenious in it's simplicity. It was manually rolled into position near the ship's open launch doors by an EV-suited crewman. A data cable connecting the torpedoes to _Chosin's_ fire control network was attached, allowing targeting and prelaunch control data to be sent to each torpedo, exactly as if it were in a torpedo tube. A four-meter tether, anchored to the deck, was attached to a pin on the six-pack. A tank of pressurized air welded to the pallet provided the initial impulse to shoot the entire device through the open launch doors and into space. After the pallet had traveled four meters, the tether would pull a pin that detonated a pair of explosive bolts, releasing the straps holding the torpedoes in place. Freed from the pallet, the torpedoes would engage their warp drives and acquire their targets.

Two six-packs could be positioned side-by-side in the launch bay, ready to deploy on command from the bridge. Along with _Chosin's_ six existing torpedo tubes (two which had been hastily retrofitted after the first battle of Lanus), this gave her the ability to _simultaneously_ launch eighteen individually-targeted torpedoes. With additional six-packs prepared and staged in the launch bay, twelve more torpedoes could be ready for launch in less than a minute. Once implemented, Hodges innovation would effectively triple _Chosin's_ rate of torpedo fire.

Hodges waited anxiously for T'Pol's verdict. She stooped to examine the explosive bolts holding the straps to the pallet. She recognized them as the same bolts used as a fail-safe on escape-pod covers. She tugged experimentally on one of the the straps, then straightened. "The design and construction appear to be adequate," she announced. "How many of these 'six-packs' can be constructed prior to our arrival in the Teneebian sector?"

Trip shrugged, "Six, easy. Maybe eight."

"Eight would be preferable. Please begin work immediately."

She stopped by Hodges on her way from the launch bay. "Well done," she told him. "I believe there is some leftover blackberry cobbler in the galley. You may tell Petty Officer McCourtney that I said you could have as much of it as you desire."

Hodges eyes widened in delight, "Thank you, Khart-lan!"

#####

In the darkness of interstellar space, the sensor-probe floated, its detection arrays fully deployed, alert to the tiniest gravimetric and spatial disturbances. Most were attributed to background noise and ignored, but one set of subspace perturbations made it past the probe's discriminator circuits to its analysis engine. The tell-tale indicators of a ship under high warp were identified, and the probe's comm routines activated. A tight-beam subspace transmission stabbed through the ether, and an indicator light on a distant Romulan vessel flashed from blue to green.

#####

Romulan warbird _Temmorax_, Teneebian sector, 16 Feb 2159

"Commander Rabus, our probes have detected a Coalition vessel running at warp six, on a course from Lalande III into this sector."

"Show me," Rabus directed.

The sensor operator redirected the probe's data stream onto the main view screen. "Contact confirmed to be a single human warship. The warp signature matches a _Dieppe_-class frigate."

Rabus idly tapped his chin while he absorbed the information on the screen. "A single ship? Are you certain?"

"Yes, commander."

"Is the ship in our data banks?"

The sensor operator checked his console before replying. "The ship is at extreme range from our probe, Commander. Several more samples will be required to complete a match against our files."

Rabus grunted, but did not take his eyes from the readings on the screen. It was clear the ship had been dispatched in response to his incursion, but it troubled him that there was only one. _They send a single frigate after four Devoras-class fleet escorts? What am I overlooking?_ When facing the Coalition, nothing--_nothing_--could be taken at face value. Nothing was ever as it seemed. _The Coalition demons are devious. Treacherous. None more so than the humans._

His musings were interrupted by the voice of his sensor operator, "Commander, the system has a match; probability point nine three the ship is..." His voice trailed off and his eyes widened in astonishment.

Rabus did not need the sensor operator to tell him the ship's name. He could read it clearly on the screen: _Chosin_.

_Chosin!_ The Starfleet frigate responsible for a long string of humiliating losses and defeats. The frigate that had somehow single-handedly destroyed a fourteen-ship battle group at Pearl Haven. The frigate commanded by that Vulcan bitch. _What was her name, T'Pal? No, T'Pol._

In a moment of self-honesty, he acknowledged the tremor of fear that had crawled up his spine on seeing the name _Chosin_; on realizing that she was coming after _him_. But there was also the thrill of anticipation at the great opportunity before him. _If I am the one to destroy Chosin, to eliminate this ship that has been a stone in our boots since the war began, my reward will be great. I will have the gratitude of the Praetor himself. My name will be known throughout the Empire. A promotion, certainly. A commendation or two, definitely. Appointment to a Military Order. Perhaps even command of a ship in the Praetor's Shield squadron!_

"Commander Rabus, our probes have detected a second Coalition ship entering the Teneebian sector."

Rabus' attention snapped back to the present. "On screen."

The sensor operator complied, and Rabus quietly studied the tactical display. The second ship was a Starfleet corvette named _Galloway_. According to the data banks, she had participated in several major fleet actions, but there was nothing else in her record to distinguish her. Projecting backward from her current heading, it was clear _Galloway _had been dispatched from Starfleet's picket line to rendezvous with _Chosin_.

He next addressed his Astrogation Officer, "Centurion T'Nalla, calculate the enemy's most probable rendezvous point based on current course and speed projections."

"Yes, Commander." T'Nalla bent her shapely form over her console, and Rabus took a moment to appreciate the sight while awaiting her results. _Perhaps after I receive my promotion at the hand of the Praetor, I will take her with me. She is a competent officer, as well as a beautiful one_.

"The projections are complete, Commander," T'Nalla announced. The view screen zoomed out, and two blue lines showed the extrapolated courses of the two ships. The area where they intersected was only a few hours from his present location.

A slow smile formed on his face, as he realized he was in perfect position for an ambush. And this time, HE would have the element of surprise.

#####

_Chosin_, en-route to Teneebian sector, 17 Feb 2159

PO3 McCourtney groaned loudly as he plopped into a chair across the table from Crewman Froehner and PO3 Ruck.

"Everyone likes the lasagna, but it sure is hard to clean up after," McCourtney explained, in response to an inquisitive look from Ruck.

'Moose' Froehner nodded in agreement, "It was good. The Captain even had a slice on her plate. I nearly dropped my tray when I saw that."

McCourtney chuckled, "Yeah, I guess that would look strange. Not to worry, though. The Captain isn't turning carnivore on us; I made one pan of lasagna without meat."

Froehner had her elbows propped on the table, and was staring into the coffee mug clasped between her hands. To McCourtney, she seemed to be waiting for something. Or someone. "So, why aren't you down in the launch bay helping build six-packs?" he probed.

"I was, but they told me to take a break, so I came up here for some coffee. Chief Verley came by and got Trinh. Said it was time for their _talk_."

"Talk? You mean about the..?"

"Yeah, about the fight."

"So what did Verley say?"

"We don't know," Ruck said, "They're still talking."

"No, they're not." The voice came from behind McCourtney.

Moose's head snapped up. "Trinh! What happened? C'mon, tell us everything."

"Half a moment." A morose looking Trinh paused at the drink dispenser and filled a mug of coffee, then joined the others at the table.

They waited expectantly while Trinh took a long sip of coffee. He sighed as he sat his mug deliberately on the table. He finally spoke, just seconds before an exasperated Froehner could urge him along. "Chief says because I was arrested by the Provost Marshal, the Captain had to do an official section-nineteen investigation. She appointed Chief Verley as the investigating official."

"And?" Moose prompted, impatiently.

"And Chief says the Andorian attacked first, so it was a case of self-defense. No charges will be brought."

"That's great!" Moose enthused.

"Yeah, great." Trinh said. His dour expression was at odds with his words.

"Then why so glum?" Moose asked, clearly confused.

Trinh examined the tiny Starfleet emblem on the side of his mug to avoid meeting the other's eyes. "Chief Verley reamed me out pretty bad. He said I exercised poor judgment. That I put the ship's mission at risk. That I should have just walked away."

"Well, yeah," McCourtney said, as if it should have been obvious. "Aggravating an Imperial Guardsman is not high on my list of intelligent things to do. They're all trained from an early age in something called kharakom. That's the andie equivalent of kick-boxing."

Trinh made a dismissive noise with his lips, "Puh-lease. Yeah, he's a bad-ass Andorian warrior all trained in his alien martial arts. But after the fight, _I_ was in the holding cell, and the _andie_ was in sickbay. Kharakom, my ass."

"No shit?" Ruck said, "You have martial arts training?"

Trinh grinned, wickedly. "Better than that; I was on the wrestling squad back in school. State champs three years running. I'll take on all comers; boxing, karate, kharakom, suus mahna, it's all the same to me. They get one kick, or one punch, and they better make it count, 'cause after that, I tackle them and take the fight to the mat. Once I've got them on the ground, they're MINE. I get them in a choke-hold, and it's all over."

McCourtney raised his eyebrows, impressed by Trinh's newly-revealed talents. "So you can tweak the antenna of a trained andie guardsman with impunity. Very impressive. And Verley said it was self-defense, so no charges will be brought. So what's the problem?"

Trinh looked back down at his mug. "Because Chief Verley was right. I should have walked away. I was baiting the andie. I knew he was about to go ape on me, and I deliberately goaded him into attacking. I may as well have thrown the first punch."

"But you didn't," McCourtney pointed out.

"Doesn't matter," Trinh said, miserably, "I could have ended the fight before it started, but I didn't want to. Chief knows the truth, and so does the Captain. Chief says I've disappointed her. I let her down. I've lost her trust, and I don't know how to get it back."

"I do," Ruck said.

Trinh just looked at him. "No jokes, Jason. I'm not in the mood."

Ruck took a deep breath, "I've never told this to anyone else before, but the day the Captain took command, I was in the ship's office running off at the mouth. I called the Captain a gutless coward, and she heard me." He paused and smiled grimly at the looks of horror on the faces around him. "Yeah, I know. Inconceivable. Khart-lan has more guts than any ten people I know, including me. I was just a stupid young punk who thought I knew everything."

"What did she do?" Moose asked, wide-eyed. It was clear the question she was _really_ asking was 'How is it you're still alive?'

"Same thing she did here," Ruck answered, "She let Chief handle it. We apologized, told her it would never happen again, and that was it. She never said another word about it. It was like it never happened. Khart-lan may never forget anything, but she sure as hell doesn't carry a grudge."

Trinh looked thoughtful. "Apologize, huh?"

Ruck nodded. "Yeah. Just make damn sure you don't go picking any more fights with the andies."

#####

Romulan warbird _Temmorax_, Teneebian sector, 17 Feb 2159

"Commander, sensors have detected an Andorian freighter."

"Show me."

The main view screen changed to display the new readings, and Rabus studied them intently. _Odd_, he thought,_ the freighter's course is taking it AWAY from the main Draylax-Teneebia shipping lanes_. "Do we have a match?" he asked.

"Yes, sir. Andorian cargo vessel _Ketalan_."

An idea began to take form in his mind. "Centurion T'Nalla, give me a course projection on that freighter."

"Yes, Commander."

Rabus waited patiently. When the freighter's course flashed onto the screen, he smiled. "Just as I thought," he said, in a self-satisfied tone.

His Executive Officer, Subcommander Kralok, looked on quizzically. "Commander?"

"Centurion, overlay this plot with course projections from the Starfleet ships."

"Yes, Commander," T'Nala said.

The probable courses of the two Coalition warships appeared on the screen and Kralok raised his eyebrows in surprise. All three courses intersected.

"My dear Kralok," Rabus said, still smiling, "you understand what this means, do you not?"

Kralok shifted nervously, "It appears the Coalition warships are to rendezvous with the Andorian freighter," he said, cautiously.

"Yes, Kralok," Rabus said, gleefully. "Think of it. The Coalition detects our incursion as we cross their picket lines. Merchant shipping in the Teneebian sector is directed to the nearest ports, and two warships are dispatched--one of them is the infamous frigate _Chosin_. But one merchant ship does NOT head back to port; it changes course to intercept the Coalition warships. Why?"

"I--I do not know, Commander."

"There can only be one reason," Rabus explained. "The Coalition wants to ensure the safety of that freighter. It is important to them, somehow."

Rabus began pacing the bridge, his excitement building. "Display everything in our data banks on the freighter _Ketalan_," Rabus directed.

It wasn't much, but it was enough. Rabus could barely contain himself at what he saw on the screen. "Look, Kralok. _Ketalan's_ Captain is the Andorian Chancellor's son! Oh, this is incredible! Unbelievable! The gods have truly smiled on us this day," Rabus enthused.

Kralok regarded his Commander warily. He had never before seen Rabus like this, and in the service of the Praetor, anything new was also a potential hazard to life or career. As such, caution was advised.

"Tell me, Kralok, what does the crew say of the Starfleet ship _Chosin_?" Rabus asked. He actually knew quite well what they said. In fact, very little was said within the hull of his ship that he was not aware of, but he wished to hear Kralok say it out loud.

"Down in the lower berths," Kralok said, "they whisper that _Chosin's_ captain is a Vulcan sorceress. That her body is possessed by Asharel, the raptor-headed god of death. That she feeds on the souls of her human crew and her Romulan victims. All ridiculous superstition, of course."

"Of course. But think what the crew will be saying about _us_, after we have destroyed _Chosin_. We will be like gods to them, Kralok. There is nothing they wouldn't do for us."

Kralok felt a hint of his Commander's excitement touch him, but he put it behind him. It was one thing to contemplate destroying _Chosin_. It was quite another thing to actually do it. "What is your plan, Commander?"

Rabus called up the local region of space on his command display. "We will destroy the coalition vessels individually, before they can rendezvous. _Kholvius_ will take a position _here_, to intercept the Andorian freighter," he pointed to a location on the screen. "_Temmorax_, _Haskar_, and _D'Gral_ will wait _here_ to intercept and destroy _Galloway_. Once the the freighter and corvette are destroyed, all ships will converge on _Chosin_, and finish her."

Kralok studied the display carefully, but could find no flaw in the plan. A slow smile replaced his usually dour expression. "Victory for the Praetor!" he proclaimed.

"Yes," Rabus agreed, "Victory for the Praetor." _And for me_, he added, silently.

**Continued in Chapter 12**


	12. Chapter 12

**Command**

**Author:** Transwarp

**Rating:** PG-13

**Genre:** Action/Drama

**Disclaimer:** Paramount owns Star Trek names, and related intellectual property.

**Summary:** War breaks out with the Romulan Empire, and T'Pol assumes command of a Starfleet frigate. This is the third story in a series (order of stories: **'Commissioning'**, then **'Liaison'**, then **'Command'**).

**TWELVE  
**_**Chosin**_**, Teneebian sector, 24 Feb 2159**

"Captain's on the bridge."

Lieutenant Koussa had the watch, and he slid from the captain's chair as T'Pol approached. She did not take a seat, but continued past the chair to stand behind the sensor station and peer over the shoulder of crewman McGuire, the suddenly apprehensive sensor operator.

"Status, Lieutenant?" Her question was directed at Koussa, but her eyes never left the sensor board.

"Heading 42 by 26 at warp six," Koussa responded. "Fourteen hours from rendezvous point at present course and speed. No activity on sensors. Normal wartime cruising, all systems green."

"Comm, have we received reports of any Romulan activity in the sector?"

"No, Khart-lan."

T'Pol gave no outward reaction to the news, but Koussa had the distinct impression she was troubled by the answer. She walked back to her chair, still not taking a seat, and pressed a button on the arm. "T'Pol to Lieutenant Graham."

Several seconds passed before her Operations Officer responded. "Graham here, Captain."

"I would like you and Chief Verley to join me in my office."

"Aye, ma'am. On our way."

T'Pol glanced at Koussa. "You have the bridge, Lieutenant." Then she was gone, as quickly as she had arrived.

Koussa exchanged a quizzical look with the sensor operator and returned to the captain's chair. "Looks like Khart-lan's bothered that there's no sign of the rommies," he said. "Personally, I think it's great--we get the freighter to Teneebia in one piece, then head for Lalande. In and out. I'd just as soon not tangle with four foxtrot-class escorts, given a choice. Maybe we'll get lucky this time."

McGuire shrugged. "A milk run _would_ be nice, for a change," he said, "Lord knows, we've earned it."

#####

T'Pol was waiting in her office when Graham and Verley arrived. "Captain?" Graham inquired.

"It has been twelve days since the Romulan vessels were sighted crossing our picket line," T'Pol pointed out while her two subordinates seated themselves. "There have been no further sightings since then. This concerns me."

"Concerns me, too, Captain," Verley said.

Graham looked from T'Pol to Verley, and an ironic smile touched his lips. "Pardon my lack of concern, ma'am, but where I come from, the absence of Romulans is a _good_ thing."

T'Pol ignored Graham's attempt at humor--at least, that's what she supposed it to be--and continued with her analysis, "By now, the Romulans have had ample time to reach the major shipping lanes in this sector. I have been expecting reports of attacks on merchant vessels for the past two days, but there has been nothing. It appears that I have been mistaken about Romulan intentions, hence my concern."

Verley nodded, a grim expression on his face. "There should have been _some_ trace of them: a sensor contact; a warp trail; an intercepted transmission. _Something_. They've clearly gone to ground somewhere. The question is, where? And why? What are they up to?"

"Indeed. Perhaps one of you could offer a possible explanation for the Romulan's apparent inaction?"

Verley shook his head, and Graham looked blank. "Sorry, Khart-lan. I've got nothing." Graham said.

"Very well." T'Pol suppressed her disappointment. She had hoped one of those spontaneous leaps of human intuition would divine the Romulan Commander's intentions. "If something occurs to you, let me know. In the meantime, we must proceed with caution. Lieutenant, how is _Galloway_ progressing on the construction of their six-packs?"

"They're done. They could only build four of them--they've used up their entire inventory of spare torpedoes."

"We still have some Mark 2 torpedoes in our hold. When we reach the rendezvous point, I want twelve of them transferred to _Galloway_," T'Pol directed. "That will allow them to build two more."

"Aye ma'am. Anything else, ma'am?"

"No. You are dismissed."

#####

Trinh clambered down the ladder to the ship's laundry on deck three. He called out as he approached the service window, "Hey, Moose." No answer.

"Moose?" he called again, leaning in through the window and looking around. He could see nothing but laundry bags in the small receiving area; dirty ones on the deck, clean ones on the shelves.

He was about to call again, but Moose peeked briefly through the doorway at the back of the room. "Oh, hey Dat. Be right with you," she said, before disappearing again into the bowels of the laundry.

"I go on watch in thirty minutes," he called at the now-vacant door. "But that's okay. Take all the time you need."

Moose reappeared, moments later and approached the window. "Sorry. Pick up or drop off?"

"Pick up."

Moose went through the bags of clean laundry on the shelves. "Nothing here for Trinh," she said, "looks like yours aren't done yet."

"But you've had them for two days."

Moose shrugged. "I'm down to two dryers. You want your stuff quicker, then get engineering to expedite my work order. I'm told it's not a high priority."

Trinh snorted. "I'll just show up for watch wearing my dirtiest uniform. I'll bet that gets your priority bumped."

"Yeah, especially if the Captain gets a whiff of you," Moose giggled.

_She's kind of cute when she laughs_, Trinh thought, followed immediately by, _where did THAT come from?_ "So, when _will_ my clothes be done?"

Moose shrugged. "Probably tomorrow, if you turned 'em in two days ago. Tell you what; I'll comm you when they're ready. Heck, if you're nice to me, I might even deliver them in person." She rested her elbows on the small shelf of the service window, and regarded Trinh with a look that seemed subtly different from her normal expression. Or maybe he was imagining it.

"Nice, huh? Don't know that I can do 'nice'. The sheriff back home said I was a regular hooligan."

"Really? A hooligan, huh? That's even better." A tiny smile touched her lips.

No, he was _definitely_ not imagining it. Intrigued, he took a closer look at her. He found himself trying to remember why he had thought she was plain-looking. True, she was BIGGER than him, but not plain. Certainly not plain. _Maybe she's done something to her hair..? _"Say, are you going to be at movie night tomorrow?" he asked.

"I was considering it."

"Great. I'll save you a seat. We can watch it together."

"Okay." That was all she said, but her eyes seemed to sparkle.

_Has she done something to her eyes, too?_ "I need to go..." he said.

"I know. You're on watch in thirty minutes. I'll see you tomorrow night."

"Tomorrow night."

Moose watched Trinh leave the ship's laundry and disappear up the ladder, then she went back to the table by the dryers, where bags of clean laundry were waiting to be shelved. She grabbed a bag at random, and hugged it tightly to her chest. Spinning twice, she let out a squeal of pure joy. She placed the bag on the proper shelf, and turned to get the next one.

#####

Lieutenant Saracco leaned on the catwalk handrail and looked out over _Chosin's_ engine room. This was her favorite time of the day; late evening, but not so late that she had any trouble staying alert. There were only five people in engineering--the three enlisted watch-standers, the Engineering Watch Officer (herself), and the Chief Engineer, leaning on the rail beside her. The engine room was quiet. Peaceful, even, or as peaceful as the engine room on a ship running at warp six could get.

ChEng was regaling her with tales of the early days of the warp five project, and she hung on his every word. After all, it gave her an excuse to look at him, and he was certainly easy to look at. Especially when he grinned at her with that grin. Or glanced at her with those expressive blue eyes.

Saracco sighed. She had once thought she had a chance with him. Sure, he was married... to a Vulcan. She'd figured there was no way he was getting the emotional comfort he needed, and she was more than willing to be there for him. Willing _and_ able.

She had finally worked up the courage to approach him. It had happened back in the early days of the war. She could still remember how it had been: the constant, frantic activity, the unrelenting sense of urgency as _Chosin_ and her short-handed crew got ready to fight. A fight that had not seemed winnable at the time.

There had been little respite--certainly no moments of comparative calm and tranquility such as she now shared with Commander Tucker--but there had been _some_ down-time. She vividly remembered the first load-test of the ship's warp core, a grueling evolution involving massive plasma-containment cables snaking across engineering and out through ports in the hull, to a free-floating barge moored alongside the ship. The barge contained the dummy load banks that would replace the actual warp coils during the full-power engine tests. As usual, there weren't enough load banks to go around, so they had just two days to run a full course of tests and system alignments. It was a process that normally took _five_ days.

Nobody in engineering slept for forty-eight hours.

At one point, ChEng called her into his office to discuss the next phase of testing. He had thrust a mug of hot coffee into her hand ("You look like you need this," he'd said) and unfurled a blueprint on his desk top. She could not for the life of her remember the time of day, or which phase of testing they had discussed. It was all a blur, now. But she vividly remembered what had transpired _after_ his impromptu briefing.

They both sat at his desk, enjoying the breather while they finished their coffee. His hand rested on the blueprint, partially obscuring the schematic of the containment field feedback controller. _I can't remember the time of day, but I can remember THAT?_

Steeling her resolve, Saracco had let her own hand slide across the table and gently cover his. She tried to appear calm, but her heart beat fiercely at her boldness.

He had looked at her--a kindly look, she recalled--and just as gently disengaged his hand from hers. "Sorry, Luisa, it can't be that way," he told her.

Her face flushed crimson. She felt like crawling away to the darkest recesses of engineering and dying. "I--I'm sorry," she stammered, "I just thought--I thought... You're married to a _Vulcan_. I thought..."

"You thought I would need some human companionship?"

Dumbly, she nodded her head.

"That's not quite how it is." He had chuckled, but somehow she knew his amusement was not aimed at her. "Believe me when I tell you I get _everything_ I need from my relationship."

His words, his expression, his body language--every part of him radiated satisfaction, confirming his statement. _He DOESN'T need me_, she realized, _and here I am, throwing myself at him like a painted harlot_. Her face flushed again, even deeper than before.

"It's okay," he said, attempting to alleviate her intense embarrassment. "Don't worry about it."

She nodded once more, and the incident was never spoken of again.

That didn't mean she forgot it, though. She began observing his interactions with the Captain. The first thing she noticed was the way they sometimes looked at each other. Not the saccharine look two lovers might share, but the look of two people engaged in a conversation, only without the words. Then there were the surreptitious touches, the quick caresses, the 'accidental' brushes, fleeting and hard to spot, but there if you watched closely (without seeming to watch). And finally, there were the strange episodes when they weren't even together. The uncanny way Commander Tucker had of seeming to know what was happening on the bridge, when he was nowhere near a data terminal or comm panel. The way he would suddenly get that _look_, distant and unfocused, just before he would announce that he had to leave.

In fact, he had that look right now.

"I've gotta go," he said, as if on cue.

"Captain need you?"

He shook his head. "Nah. I'm just out here killing time so I don't disturb her while she meditates. She's done now. I'll see you in the morning."

_No way I could compete with THAT_, Saracco thought, after he had left. _Still, it would have been fun to try..._

#####

Trip immediately noticed the music softly playing as he entered their quarters. "That's not opera," he observed. "I like it."

"You are correct," T'Pol said, not looking up as she folded and stored the thick quilt she used as a meditation cushion. "I am currently investigating orchestral works from Europe's classical and romantic periods."

"And I feel like I'm in a music appreciation class," Trip said with a wry grin. T'Pol could be very _methodical_ when she delved into a new field of music. "Say, how come you never listen to Vulcan music?"

"Have you ever heard any Vulcan music?" T'Pol asked.

"Some. Didn't much care for it."

"Vulcan music is quite different from human music. It is intended to appeal to the intellect. To appreciate a Vulcan musical composition, you must appreciate its underlying mathematical structure. The complex interplays between patterns of tone and rhythm. The skill and patience required of the performers to learn and execute difficult passages. I am told humans find Vulcan music to be discordant. Atonal."

"Not to mention boring," Trip added. "Vulcan music is all head. It has no heart or soul."

"On the other hand, Vulcans do not appreciate human music. They find it to be repetitive and overly simplistic."

"But _you_ listen to it," Trip pointed out.

"Yes. Because of our bond, I am able to safely access the emotions invoked by your music. Most Vulcans cannot. They would find it quite unsettling to even try."

"But Vulcans haven't always been so logical," Trip prompted. "Before the Awakening, there must have been _some_ music that was more... more emotional."

"You must remember that Vulcan went directly from a warrior culture to a logical culture," T'Pol explained. "In historical terms, it happened very quickly. Pre-Awakening Vulcan music consists mainly of primitive celebrations of despotic rulers or military victories. Vulcan has no equivalent to the human renaissance. There was no opportunity for different musical styles to evolve."

"So, you're saying there's no _good_ Vulcan music."

T'Pol considered Trip's statement briefly before answering. "In human terms, you are correct."

"I'm sorry, what was that you just said?"

"I believe you heard me the first time."

"Tell me again."

T'Pol suppressed a sigh. "I said you are correct."

Trip grinned in triumph. "Let the record show that on February 24th, 2159, I was correct. It may be another decade before it happens again."

"It is unlikely to happen again so quickly," T'Pol suggested, archly.

Trip chuckled at the slam, but let it go unremarked. "I need a shower. Care to join me?"

T'Pol shook her head, reluctantly, "Not tonight, my love. There are some tasks I must accomplish before the rendezvous tomorrow."

Trip pushed aside his disappointment. "Okay. Your loss."

She said nothing, but her eyes followed him as he disappeared into the shower. Then she sat at her console and got to work.

T'Pol was still at her desk when Trip came out of the shower. He looked over her shoulder and saw she was reviewing _Chosin's_ comm logs. He didn't need the bond to realize she was looking for reports of Romulan activity. _Those missing Romulan ships are really bugging her_.

"Any sign of them?" he asked.

"No."

"Maybe they've already turned back. Maybe all they wanted was to get our merchant ships scurrying for the nearest port."

"It is unlikely they would have sent four foxtrot-class escorts if that was their intent. Two alpha-class vessels would have been sufficient, in that case."

"So, what is their intent?"

"I do not know, my love. _That_ is what concerns me."

Trip snorted. "Who would've thought not seeing Romulans could be worse than seeing them? It's kinda like eating an apple."

T'Pol considered Trip's statement carefully before responding. "I fail to see any similarity to eating apples."

"Well, then. What's worse than finding a worm in your apple?"

"Two worms?"

Trip shook his head, "Nope. Half a worm."

T'Pol's eyes glinted with amusement. "Indeed."

#####

**Romulan warbird **_**Temmorax**_**, Teneebian sector, 25 Feb 2159**

"Commander Rabus, we have been detected by the Starfleet corvette _Galloway_."

Rabus nodded. It was sooner than expected; those Coalition ter'ak must have upgraded their sensors again. "It is time to spring our trap, Kralok. Call the crew to action stations. Set a course for _Galloway, _maximum warp, _Haskar_ and _D'Gral_ in echelon-right formation."

"Yes, Commander."

"Raise _Kholvius_ on the subspace link," he directed his Communication Officer. "They are to engage and destroy the Andorian Freighter _Ketalan_ immediately."

"Yes, Commander."

"What is our time to intercept?" he asked Centurion T'Nala.

"Fifteen minutes, Commander."

"And what is the distance to _Chosin_?"

"Two-hundred twenty light-hours, Commander," T'Nala responded.

_Almost an hour, at Chosin's maximum reported speed of warp 6.2_, Rabus mused. _An hour is sufficient time to finish Galloway. The elements of my plan are falling into place nicely._

#####

_**Chosin**_**, Teneebian sector, 25 Feb 2159**

"Bridge to Captain T'Pol."

T'Pol placed her fork deliberately on her breakfast plate, rose from the table, and walked to the nearest comm panel. "T'Pol here."

"Ma'am, _Galloway_ has detected three Romulan warbirds moving to intercept."

"I am on my way. Establish a data link with _Galloway;_ stream their sensor channels."

"Aye, Captain."

Trip clamped a biscuit in his mouth--something he could eat on the run--and grabbed their trays, one in each hand. *I'll be in engineering,* he sent, as he headed for the trash chute.

T'Pol was already out the door. *We will go to flank speed as soon as I reach the bridge,* T'Pol replied. *I will need as much speed as you can provide, without endangering the engines.*

*Nothing new there,* Trip grumbled. *I can give you warp 6.8 for twenty, twenty-five minutes. Maybe.*

*I will take it, my love.*

T'Pol lost no time getting to the bridge. She began issuing commands before she was completely through the door. "Helm, set a course for _Galloway_, flank speed."

Lieutenant Walder jumped from the command chair, "Captain's on the--"

T'Pol cut her off, and addressed the watch-stander at the communications console, "Comm, open a ship-to-ship with _Galloway_. On screen."

"Aye, Khart-lan." He bent to the task, talking quietly into his headset. "Got 'em," he said, moment's later, "You're on."

The main view screen flickered and the tactical display was replaced by an image of Lieutenant Commander Mancusa on _Galloway's_ bridge. "_Galloway_ here," he stated. He was already in his pressure suit (one of the lightweight suits that Starfleet had developed shortly after the first battle of Lanus), but had not yet donned his helmet. In the background, the General Quarters alarm was still blaring. Mancusa looked off-screen and made a cutting motion across his throat. The GQ alarm went silent.

"Status?" T'Pol asked.

"Three Romulan foxtrots are on an intercept vector, bearing zero by zero. ETA is fifteen minutes," Mancusa replied.

T'Pol considered Mancusa's information. The three warbirds were approaching _Galloway_ from a bearing directly along her line of flight. That could only mean one thing: the Romulans had been waiting for _Galloway_ near the rendezvous point. _But where is the fourth?_ she wondered. She had an unsettled feeling that she knew.

She gave Mancusa his orders. "_Galloway_, set a course for _Chosin_ at flank speed. Make all efforts to evade the Romulan foxtrots until our arrival. Our ETA is thirty-two minutes." Left unsaid was the fact that the warbirds would arrive seventeen minutes before _Chosin._ She knew Mancusa had already done THAT calculation.

"Aye, Commander."

"_Chosin_ out." T'Pol nodded at the comm station, and the link went down.

"Lieutenant Walder, sound General Quarters."

"Aye, Khart-lan."

"This is not a drill. General Quarters, General Quarters. All hands man your battle stations. This is not a drill." The strident tones of the GQ alarm reverberated through the ship, and a mad scramble ensued as crewmen dashed to their stations and donned their pressure suits.

The watch-standers on the bridge departed as they were relieved by the primary bridge crew. Lieutenant Graham took his place behind the primary weapons console, running through the torpedo fire control and launch diagnostics, while Ensign Bowman manned the secondary console, and powered-up the phase-cannons. The secondary weapons console had been an innovation of the Board of Dirty Tricks, when then-Ensign Graham had complained that he sometimes had difficulty maintaining effective phase-cannon fire while simultaneously targeting and firing torpedoes. A second sensor console had also been added, for much the same reason. In fact, even more stations would have been useful, but _Chosin's_ small bridge had simply run out of space to put them.

Within a minute-and-a-half, all stations had checked in with the bridge. Lights on the Damage Control status board flashed to green, indicating doors and hatches were closed and blast barriers in place. "All battle stations manned and ready, Khart-lan," Graham reported. The ship was ready for action.

Chief Verley entered the bridge, standing next to the command chair. He keyed the private suit channel he shared with Captain T'Pol, "Any sign of that fourth foxtrot, ma'am?"

"No, Chief."

Before either could speculate any further, the question was answered. Walder looked up from the comm station, "Khart-lan, I'm receiving a distress call from _Ketalan_. They've detected a Romulan warbird closing at high warp, ETA ten minutes."

"There's our fourth foxtrot," Verley said.

_It is as I feared_, T'Pol thought, _they are targeting the Andorian freighter_. "Lieutenant Graham, what is _Ketalan's_ range?"

"Eighty-six light-hours, ma'am. Sixteen minutes at flank speed."

Possibilities and options flashed through T'Pol's mind, but they invariably boiled down to a single fact: She could save _Galloway_, or she could save _Ketalan_. She could not save both.

"Lieutenant Walder, inform _Ketalan_ we are unable to come to their aid. Petty Officer Trinh, maintain current course and speed."

"Aye, Khart-lan."

Chief Verley keyed the private channel again. "Captain, may I remind you our mission is to escort _Ketalan_ to safety?"

"I am aware of that, Chief. However, if we carry out our mission, _Galloway_ will be destroyed. Viewed logically, saving _Galloway_ is better for the war effort than saving _Ketalan_. I must do whatever is most likely to shorten the war."

"Your logic is flawless, Captain, but my gut tells me this is trouble."

"What would you advise, Chief?"

Her question brought him up short. He knew Captain T'Pol had a high regard for his judgment in these matters. He suspected she would likely defer to whatever course of action he recommended. He would literally be deciding who lived and who died, and he suddenly felt a small measure of the enormous burden she carried all the time.

She was his Captain. She had earned his loyalty and respect a dozen times over. The LAST thing she needed was for him to second-guess her decisions. "Maintain course and speed, ma'am."

T'Pol's nod was visible through the helmet of her pressure suit. "I concur." The die was cast; there would be no going back, now.

"Where do you want me, ma'am?" he asked, as he had before every combat action since the war began.

"I would like you in the launch bay, helping with the six-packs."

"On my way."

As he left the bridge, he heard Lieutenant Walder's voice over the command channel, "Khart-lan, I have a ship-to-ship from _Ketalan's_ Captain. He says it's urgent that he speak with you."

That was one call Verley was damned glad _he_ didn't have to take.

#####

_**Temmorax**_**, Teneebian sector, 25 Feb 2159**

"Commander, _Chosin_ has changed course and speed. She is heading directly for us at warp 6.8."

It required a heroic effort for Rabus to keep the astonishment off his face; it would not do for his crew to believe he had been surprised. But warp 6.8? No Starfleet vessel had ever been observed traveling at that speed. _The rumors that Vulcans are sharing their propulsion secrets with the Humans must be true_, Rabus thought. This, despite Military Intelligence reports claiming that Vulcan warp technology was incompatible with Human ship design. Where the Coalition was concerned, very little of what Military Intelligence reported ever had any merit.

"Centurion T'Nala, what is their ETA now?"

"Thirty minutes, Commander."

Rabus almost frowned. He would have seventeen minutes to engage and destroy _Galloway_ before _Chosin_ was on top of him. Seventeen minutes. It wasn't much time, but it would have to be enough.

Kralok _did_ frown. "Commander, if we recall _Kholvius_ immediately, she can be here before _Chosin_ arrives."

"No, Kralok. I want that Andorian freighter destroyed."

"Commander, the freighter is of no consequence. See how the humans abandon her? We need _Kholvius_ here to defeat _Chosin_."

"Kralok," Rabus hissed, "control yourself. We are three fleet escorts against one frigate and a corvette. I will hear no more of this."

Subcommander Kralok subsided at the dangerous glint in Rabus' eyes. Intellectually, he knew Rabus was correct. The humans were clearly outnumbered and outgunned. He had no reason to worry. No reason at all. So why _was_ he worried?

#####

_**Chosin**_**, Teneebian sector, 25 Feb 2159**

Ensign Bowman checked the settings on his weapons panel one more time and tried not to look as nervous as he felt. Forty-two days ago he was just one among hundreds, an anonymous Ensign in the pool of replacements that Starfleet had sent to Lalande following the second battle of Lanus. He remembered his excitement--bordering on euphoria--when he had received orders to _Chosin_. He had basked in the envious looks of the other Ensigns, had shamelessly gloated at his good fortune.

Now, as they prepared to engage three foxtrot-class warbirds, he was thinking that his good fortune wasn't looking all that fortunate.

Nervous, hell. He was _scared_.

He cast furtive glances at the others around him, and envied their calm demeanors. Except for Ensign Litke at the secondary sensor console, they were all original crew members. They had been with _Chosin_ from the beginning of the war. Everyone on the bridge, except him, had seen multiple combat actions. Even Litke had been at 6 Virginis and Lanus.

It wasn't that he didn't know what to do. He was a recent graduate of the Starfleet Bridge Officer's course, and for the past forty-one days had practically lived in Lieutenant Graham's hip pocket, going over and over every aspect of his duties as a weapons officer. Some of what he'd learned at the Bridge Officer's course he had to unlearn: Here, things were done the '_Chosin_ way,' which was just another way of saying Captain T'Pol's way.

Captain T'Pol--he had not yet earned the right to address her as Khart-lan--took an active interest in his training. She'd come by frequently to check on his progress and question him about what he had learned. She was present for many of the combat simulations that Graham had him run through, often standing directly behind him and silently watching his every move. The first few times she'd done that had been terribly unnerving, but he quickly learned to ignore her presence and focus on the tactical situation.

He would never forget the last simulation Graham had put him through. It had started out routinely enough, with Romulan warp signatures detected at extreme sensor range. Graham sat behind his own console, controlling the simulation and playing the parts of the other bridge stations. The door to the bridge had opened, and he was vaguely aware of Captain T'Pol's soft footsteps as she came to stand behind him, quietly observing.

The remote contacts had resolved into individual ships as they closed at... at... warp NINE? Twenty of them, no forty... he'd stared dumbly as the contact count incremented, finally stabilizing at two-hundred.

"What are you going to do now, Ensign?" Graham had asked.

"Uh... shoot at them, I guess." He opened fire with all phase-cannons, targeting the lead vessels. He noticed something odd about the way they were maneuvering, and took a moment to glance up at the main view screen. All thought of contact headings and firing solutions fled his mind as he realized he'd been had. The Romulan ships on the view screen had formed into words:

**Welcome to the  
bridge crew.**

Raucous laughter filled the room, and he'd turned to find the entire bridge crew standing behind Captain T'Pol. They all sported wide grins, with the exception of the Captain. She just looked... Vulcan.

She spoke first, "Ensign Bowman, I have determined you are ready to assume your duties. Congratulations." Then she shocked him further by extending her hand. He had always been told Vulcans NEVER shook hands.

So, yeah, he knew what to do. The people around him knew what to do. Captain T'Pol sure as hell knew what to do. So why was he so scared?

He checked his panel one more time. Maybe it was the waiting. That was it; the waiting was getting to him.

Lieutenant Walder's voice brought him back to the present. "Khart-lan, _Ketalan_ reports she's taking fire. Romeo-four has closed to disruptor range, and is engaging."

_It's starting_, Bowman thought. Icy fingers gripped his heart, and suddenly the waiting didn't seem quite so bad.

"Put it on audio, Lieutenant," T'Pol directed.

"Aye, ma'am." Walder streamed the transmissions from _Ketalan _through the translation matrix and over the bridge audio channel. As the Romulan foxtrot closed on _Ketalan_, disruptor hits became more frequent. The bridge crew exchanged helpless looks as they listened to _Ketalan's_ damage reports and her Captain's frantic pleas for help.

Bowman could see Captain T'Pol clearly from his station, and he watched as she caught Lieutenant Walder's eye and gave her a subtle hand-gesture. Walder immediately cut the audio feed to the bridge, and subsequent reports of the carnage on _Ketalan_ were filtered through her calm, dispassionate voice.

Within minutes, _Ketalan's_ surviving crew were forced to abandon ship. Escape pods shot from the stricken vessel, dispersing in all directions. Moments later, the battered freighter broke apart under the merciless barrage of disruptor fire.

"I'm receiving distress beacons from twelve escape pods, ma'am. Ten pods with three survivors, two pods with two."

"Transmit their locations to Fleet, Lieutenant, then inform the escape pods we will begin rescue operations as soon as we have dealt with the Romulans."

"Aye, Khart-lan."

Walder turned to comply, but received an incoming message first. Her face hardened to stone as she listened on her headset. "Khart-lan," she said, her voice choked with anger and disbelief, "the Romulans are targeting the escape pods with their disruptors."

A shocked silence fell over the bridge. Bowman glanced at Captain T'Pol, whose only reaction was to close her eyes. It was just for a moment, but it was a moment that seemed to Bowman to stretch into eternity.

"Lieutenant Walder?" T'Pol asked, finally breaking the silence.

"Escape pod beacons have all ceased transmitting." Walder's voice had gone flat.

Ensign Bowman was stunned. Never had he encountered such a calculated display of pure evil. Even the Xindi, when they unleashed their weapon on Earth, had believed they were acting in self-defense. _This_ was unimaginable. Inconceivable.

Thirty-four Andorians had made it to the escape pods. Thirty-four noncombatants. Thirty-four lives ended, so casually. So brutally. Thirty-four...

A hand on his shoulder brought him abruptly back to the present. It was Captain T'Pol. She spoke to him over his private suit channel, her voice calm and reassuring. "Remember your training, Ensign. Do your job, and leave the rest to me."

"Yes, Captain," he answered. She gazed at him for several more seconds, then nodded, apparently satisfied with what she saw, before returning to her command chair.

"Comm, open a ship-to-ship channel with _Galloway._ On screen."

"Aye, ma'am."

The view screen flickered, and the tactical display was replaced by the helmeted image of Commander Mancusa. "_Galloway_, ma'am."

"_Ketalan_ has been destroyed," T'Pol said. "There are apparently no survivors."

"We reached the same conclusion," Mancusa said, his voice tight.

"The three warbirds pursuing you will be in disruptor range in the next two minutes," T'Pol said. "The Romulan Commander will want to reserve his torpedoes for use against _Chosin_. He will attempt to close with you and destroy you with disruptor fire. Evade him as long as possible. You may use torpedoes at your discretion, but the six-packs may only be deployed on my command."

Mancusa balked at that, "_Chosin_, I've got three foxtrots climbing up my ass. I'm going to need those six-packs."

"And I'm going to need the element of surprise. You have your orders, _Galloway_."

"Aye, Commander," Mancusa said, with obvious reluctance.

"_Galloway_, the Romulan Commander committed an error in judgment when he underestimated our speed. He has left himself insufficient time to destroy _Galloway_ before _Chosin_ arrives."

"Are you certain, _Chosin_? Seventeen minutes is a long time to hold off three foxtrots."

"Proper use of the six-packs will buy you extra time. On my command, you will deploy the first two six-packs in stand-by mode. They will be activated later."

A slow smile spread over Mancusa's face. "Aye, Commander."

"_Chosin_ out."

Bowman checked his panel yet again. He was still nervous, but no longer scared. _Those Romulan bastards are going to pay for what they've done_.

#####

The engines howled, the deck shook, and the temperature in the engine room climbed steadily, but Trip had never been more proud of his engineers than he was at that moment. _Chosin_ had been running at warp 6.8 for twenty-seven minutes, and could probably maintain it for another five, if needed. It was unprecedented.

He made the rounds from station to station, giving advice or encouragement as required. He stepped up behind Lieutenant Saracco at the main engineering panel. "How's the coolant temp, Luisa?" he yelled over the straining engine's roar.

"Right on the red-line," she yelled back. "Schmitt is venting plasma whenever the pressure gets too high. It keeps the core from overheating, but we'll have to top off when this is all over." She took a moment to blink the sweat from her eyes and curse the designers of the new pressure suits for their inadequate cooling systems. They were lighter, less cumbersome, and easier to don than the old EV suits, but they sure did get HOT.

An indicator blinked, drawing her attention to the intermix console. A quick glance revealed an engine parameter climbing out of tolerance, so she nudged the ratio down, then back up a hair to stabilize the reading. It was still too high, but not critically so, and Trip nodded approvingly. He clapped her on the shoulder, "Good job. Keep on it; _Galloway_ is taking fire, and we're still three minutes out." Then he moved on to the next station.

Saracco's eyes never left her panel.

#####

Inexorably, the Romulan warships closed on _Galloway_. Despite her wild zig-zagging, disruptor hits came with increasing frequency. _Chosin_ was still two minutes away when _Galloway's_ aft shield generators failed under the Romulan onslaught.

The next hit blasted a hole in her hull, port-side aft, and a massive vapor plume erupted as a fresh water tank vented to space.

T'Pol judged it time to execute the next phase of her plan.

The ship-to-ship channel between _Chosin_ and _Galloway_ remained open, audio only, and T'Pol sent her directions to Commander Mancusa, "_Galloway_, this is _Chosin_. Deploy two six-packs in stand-by mode."

"_Chosin_, this is _Galloway_. Six-packs deployed."

T'Pol watched the sensor readings that showed two six-packs separating from _Galloway_ and breaking into twelve inactive torpedoes. "Roger, _Galloway_. Maintain course and speed."

"_Galloway_ aye."

#####

_**Temmorax**_**, Teneebian sector, 25 Feb 2159**

"_Galloway's_ rear shields are down, Commander."

"Continue firing," Commander Rabus ordered. His command was quite unnecessary--all three of his ships had maintained a constant rate of disruptor fire from the time _Galloway_ had entered extreme range, and would not stop firing until she was destroyed.

"A hit! _Galloway's_ hit. She's venting water."

Rabus smiled. It wouldn't be long now. He glanced at the tactical display. _Chosin_ was still on an intercept course, and amazingly, still maintaining warp 6.8. She was now just two minutes from intercept. Rabus' smile became a savage grin. It had been a valiant effort on _Chosin's_ part, but she would arrive too late. _Galloway_ would not last another minute.

His sensor operator looked up from his station, "Commander, twelve objects were just ejected from _Galloway_."

Twelve objects..? _Mines!_ "Helm, hard to port!"

The ships inertial dampers whined in protest as the startled helmsman abruptly changed course. Rabus instinctively gripped the arms of his chair as he felt the faint tug of uncompensated g-forces.

"Sensor station, report." Rabus snapped.

"Commander, the objects _Galloway_ ejected are torpedoes. Twelve of them. They remain inactive."

Rabus pondered that information. Inactive. He wondered if it was a misfire, then decided it didn't matter. By forcing him to change course, the torpedoes had done their job and gained more time for _Galloway_. Even _without_ firing. But now, he must continue the chase--the Starfleet vessels could not be allowed to escape. "Helm, resume course for _Galloway_, maximum warp."

Subcommander Kralok reacted to Rabus' command with alarm. "Commander, we cannot continue the chase with twelve torpedoes behind us! _She_ will catch us in a crossfire. We must destroy them first."

"No Kralok, that is exactly what she wants. If I stop to destroy these torpedoes, it will give her time to escape. That is undoubtedly her plan."

Kralok stared in stunned disbelief, and cold fingers of fear crawled along his spine. _Rabus must be blind not to see the obvious. Or blinded by his dreams of glory. Whatever the reason, his current course is folly--he will get us all killed_.

Kralok attempted one more appeal to reason, "Commander, surely you can see this is a trap she has laid for you?"

"Kralok, you are letting your fear get the better of you. It is unseemly. You must control it. We have an overwhelming advantage in guns and torpedoes over _Chosin_, even with _Galloway_ at her side. They will NOT escape. Not from me. I will not allow it!"

In that moment, Kralok realized they were going to die, and something inside him snapped. "Rabus, you fool," he snarled, "she doesn't _want_ to escape; she wants to _kill_ us!"

Rabus could barely contain his rage at Kralok's insubordination, and his hand clutched at the butt of his disruptor pistol. For a long moment he stared at Kralok, who had gone rigid with emotion. He had to decide whether to shoot him on the spot--his right as Captain--or have him removed to the brig for a slower, more methodical death.

His deliberation was interrupted by Centurion T'Nala, "Commander, _Galloway_ has changed course!"

He shifted his gaze from Kralok to the tactical display. While he had been arguing with Kralok, _Galloway_ and _Chosin_ had rendezvoused. Instead of _Chosin_ turning and trying to escape with _Galloway_, _Galloway_ had reversed course, and the two ships were now in formation on a heading back toward the Romulans.

A cold fear pierced his rage. Kralok was right--_She_ was coming to kill them.

#####

_**Chosin**_**, Teneebian sector, 25 Feb 2159**

Moose stood in the launch bay between the two six-packs and marveled at her good luck.

Then again, maybe luck had nothing to do with it. The job of six-pack pusher required someone with the strength and stamina to muscle the heavy six-packs into position, and she _certainly_ had that. It made perfect sense that she would be one of the people Chief Verley tagged to be on the six-pack teams. But no matter the reason, the job had been given to her, and it had taken a supreme effort of will for her to refrain from grabbing Verley in a bear hug and giving him a huge, sloppy kiss when he told her. It was surely a step up from her old GQ station in the ship's store room, where she had run parts and supplies to whoever needed them. Usually Engineering or one of the Damage Control teams. Now, she was part of the action, not sitting down in the bowels of the ship twiddling her thumbs.

Verley's voice crackled in her helmet speakers, "Opening launch bay doors. Check your safety lines, then check your buddy's."

She followed her line from the D-ring on her harness to the anchor point on the launch bay deck, giving it an experimental tug. Then she looked across at Crewman Delgado, the starboard pusher, and visually verified that his line was also secure. They exchanged thumbs-up signals, then turned to watch as the launch doors slid open.

Once again, she marveled at her luck. How many people could say they'd stood in a pressure suit, at the edge of the launch bay with the doors wide open, on a ship traveling at high warp? Not many, she'd wager.

#####

_**Temmorax**_**, Teneebian sector, 25 Feb 2159**

Rabus shook off the surge of fear that had gripped him when he saw _Chosin_ was not retreating. _She should have run while she had the chance_, he thought. _It is too late for her now; I WILL destroy her_.

But first he had a piece of unfinished business to take care of. "Get that piece of crallit dung off my bridge!" Rabus snarled, pointing at his ashen-faced second-in-command. _Former_ second-in-command. There was no place in the service of the Praetor for cowards. A security officer grabbed Kralok and led him roughly from the bridge.

Rabus turned back to his bridge team. After Kralok's shameful display, they were all on edge. They needed to see him calm. They needed to see he was in control.

The first issue was the twelve torpedoes that were threatening his rear. It was too late to destroy them, as Kralok had desired, but he could make his ships less vulnerable by dispersing his formation. By dispersing, he could also envelope the two Starfleet vessels and more easily overwhelm them.

He gave the necessary orders.

#####

_**Chosin**_**, Teneebian sector, 25 Feb 2159**

"Khart-lan, the Romulans are breaking formation." Lieutenant Koussa said.

"Thank you, Lieutenant." T'Pol opened the ship-to-ship channel, "_Galloway_, this is _Chosin._"

"_Galloway_, aye."

"_Galloway_, the Romulans are dispersing. I believe they will make an attempt to envelop us. On my command, be prepared to drop from warp and break formation. Maneuver to keep their ships between us. You are free to engage with all weapons at that time. _Chosin_ will target romeo-leader and romeo-two, _Galloway_, you have romeo-three. Transfer control of your remote torpedoes to my bridge, I will use them to take out romeo-leader."

"Roger, _Chosin_. Waiting for your command."

"_Chosin_ out."

T'Pol next addressed her weapons stations, "Ensign Bowman, as soon as we have dropped from warp, engage romeo-two with phase-cannons."

"Aye, Captain."

"Lieutenant Graham, you will engage romeo-leader with torpedoes set to maximum yield, all tubes and one six-pack."

"Aye, Khart-lan."

Then she sent an update through the bond, *Trip, be prepared. I am about to drop from warp.*

That was the best news Trip could have received. The Warp core was running hotter than he had ever seen it, and keeping the containment field stable was requiring the undivided attention of two engineers, one manually tweaking coil current, and one managing plasma flow rates. Complicating matters was the fact that they had to coordinate their efforts, since a change in one impacted the other. Normally, control of these parameters was automated, but they were operating well outside the design limits of the computerized control systems.

"Look alive, people," Trip broadcast over his Engineering channel, "we're about to drop from warp. I guess they got tired of abusing our warp drive, now they want to abuse the impulse drives." *Thanks for the heads-up, darling,* he sent back to T'Pol.

*You are welcome, my love. Later, we will speak of this notion that I am abusing your engines.* Her focus shifted back to the bridge, and her presence faded to a comforting warmth in the back of his mind.

Sweat ran in rivers down his body, but he ignored the discomfort. Several of the impulse drive's systems were in less than marginal condition--the starboard propellant pump came to mind--and he wanted engineers monitoring them. He mentally ran through his personnel roster, already deciding who he was going to assign to which system.

Back on the bridge, T'Pol gave the order to drop from warp. _Chosin_ and _Galloway_ separated, proceeding on divergent courses. _Galloway_ maneuvered to engage romeo three, while _Chosin_ moved to intercept romeo leader.

"Firing phase-cannons," Ensign Bowman said, making no attempt to conceal his eagerness. "Targeting romeo-two."

"Tubes one through six away, Khart-lan. Forty seconds to intercept." Graham announced. He continued, moments later, "Six-pack deployed... torpedoes away... Thirty-eight seconds to intercept. All twelve torpedoes running hot and true."

While Graham was firing his torpedoes, T'Pol sent the commands that activated the twelve torpedoes drifting behind the Romulans, directing them at romeo-leader. They acquired their assigned target and went to warp, homing unerringly on the Romulan foxtrot.

#####

_**Temmorax**_**, Teneebian sector, 25 Feb 2159**

"Chosin is firing torpedoes, Commander. Multiple launches. Sensors detect twelve torpedoes inbound, impact in forty seconds."

"How many?"

"Twelve."

Rabus frowned. _Twelve? Impossible. Starfleet frigates only have six torpedo launchers. There is no way they can simultaneously fire twelve torpedoes... is there? _"Weapons, shift fire from _Chosin_ to the torpedoes. Prepare to interdict with our torpedoes, all tubes, launch on my command."

"Yes, Commander.

"Commander, the twelve torpedoes behind us have entered warp! They are inbound, impact in thirty seconds!" There was a hard edge of panic in the sensor operator's voice.

Rabus' blood ran cold, and he quickly amended his orders to the gun batteries, "port disruptors, target the new torpedoes, starboard, continue fire at the old."

"Yes, Commander!"

"Launch torpedoes now. All tubes," Rabus said.

The weapons officer looked up in confusion, "At what, Commander?"

"At the inbound torpedoes, you idiot!" Rabus yelled. "Tubes one through four at the old, five through eight at the new! Continue firing until inbounds are destroyed!"

He watched the tracks of the twenty-four inbound torpedoes on the tactical display as they intersected the outbound tracks of his own torpedoes. Where they met, a wave of brilliant flashes erupted.

Early in the war, it would have been enough. The overlapping spheres of fiery annihilation would have easily destroyed most, if not all, of the inbound torpedoes. Disruptor fire and active jamming would have neutralized the rest.

But this was not early in the war. The Coalition devils continually refined their ordnance and modified their tactics. They knew the exact yield of Romulan torpedoes. They knew the sensitivity of Romulan sensors. They incorporated that knowledge into their torpedo guidance systems. Coalition torpedoes were equipped with countermeasures to confuse the active homing systems on Romulan torpedoes. Their guidance systems were programmed to follow erratic and rapidly changing courses that made them difficult to hit with disruptor fire. And those erratic courses also caused them to disperse, making it difficult for a single high-yield warhead to destroy multiple inbound torpedoes.

When the fireballs faded, five torpedoes were still inbound. It was in that moment Rabus knew with certainty he was going to die.

"Five seconds to impact," the sensor operator said. The panic in his voice was gone, as if he were resigned to his fate, and Rabus felt a surge of pride at his crew. _We die as Romulans._

"One second."

_I never fired a single shot at her_, Rabus thought. _Perhaps she really IS a sorceress_. It was his last thought before the torpedoes struck.

#####

_**Chosin**_**, Teneebian sector, 25 Feb 2159**

Delgado stepped back from the six-pack, giving Moose a thumbs-up sign. She fastened the tether to the detonating pin, and stepped back herself. "Tether set," she said, over the suit comm, "pushers are clear."

"Clear to fire," Verley relayed to the bridge.

"Firing." On a command from the bridge, a solenoid on the six-pack opened, and a plume of compressed air shot the pallet of torpedoes out the launch doors and into space.

Moose pulled the four-meter tether back in, unclipped the detonating pin from its end, and coiled the tether on the deck. Then she ran back and stood beside the next six-pack in line. Delgado had taken up position on the other side.

"Move it up, Pushers," Verley directed.

Moose leaned her body into it, and the six-pack rolled forward.

"Set," Verley said, when they were in position.

Moose set the brake on her side, and got the thumbs up from Delgado that he had done the same.

"Brakes set," she commed.

The shipped lurched violently sideways, and she was thrown off her feet. The part of the starboard engine nacelle visible to her through the launch doors momentarily brightened, as if a giant camera flash had gone off.

_A disruptor hit_, she realized, as she regained her feet. S_hields must be down_. That ordinarily would have worried her, but right now she was too busy to be worried. _I LOVE my new battle station_.

Somewhere, an overloaded circuit-breaker tripped, and the launch bay lights flickered, then went out. Battery-powered emergency lighting came on immediately, but the brightly-lit launch bay was now a gloomy cavern. Moose reached for the end of the tether, not finding it where she'd left it. _Must have shifted when the deck lurched_. She cast around, looking for it.

"Inbound torpedoes," came a voice through her headset, "we need those six-packs." The voice wasn't Verley's. Moose supposed it was someone on the bridge. _Where the hell is the end of that tether?_

"Data cable set," Delgado commed, indicating he had connected the wires that allowed targeting data to be uploaded to the torpedoes.

Moose finally found the end of the tether where it had slid around behind her. She grabbed it and hastily clipped it to the detonating pin. "Tether set," she said, stepping back.

There was Delgado's thumbs-up. "Pushers are clear," she called. Neither one of them noticed the loop of tether laying on the deck _behind_ Moose.

"Clear to fire."

"Firing."

The six-pack shot into space, and the loop in the tether tightened like a noose around Moose's ankles. She was jerked off her feet and thrown from the launch bay, her helmet slamming into the edge of the door as she hurtled past.

When the six-pack reached the end of the tether, the explosive bolts detonated. The cargo straps--suddenly released from their tension-- snapped back like whips. The jagged tip of one strap caught her safety line and sliced it in two.

Delgado watched in horror as Moose's unconscious body dwindled into the interstellar night.

#####

"Helm, your orders are to maintain a distance of ten light-seconds from romeo-four. Do not allow them to get any closer than that." T'Pol directed.

"Aye, Khart-lan," Trinh responded. _I hope they're ready down in engineering, because the impulse drives are about to get a __**serious**__ workout._

Romeo-four was the last surviving Romulan foxtrot, and the one Trinh most wanted to see destroyed: Romeo-four was the ship that had murdered the crew of _Ketalan_.

The cowardly bastards had very nearly escaped. They changed course and went to warp after the destruction of their comrades. _Galloway_ was at a dead stop, warp and impulse engines both damaged by disruptor fire, but _Chosin_ had taken off after the retreating Romulan vessel.

Only another astounding performance by _Chosin's_ Engineering Department had allowed them to overtake the fleeing ship. They had actually managed a short burst at warp 6.9, which had been enough to bring the warbird within range of _Chosin's_ weapons. Both ships had dropped from warp, and a slug-fest ensued.

The desperate warbird had fired every torpedo in her magazines as fast as her auto-loaders could slam them into the tubes. For three minutes, a steady stream of destruction rained down on _Chosin_, but her defenses held.

_Chosin's_ own torpedo magazines were emptied defending against the onslaught, as well as the last of her six-packs. But unlike the foxtrot, _Chosin_ carried spare torpedoes in her cargo hold. Below decks, the torpedo techs were urgently at the back-breaking task of manually hauling torpedoes through _Chosin's_ narrow passageways and reloading her depleted magazines.

While her launchers were being reloaded, the battle between the two ships devolved into a vicious gun fight.

On paper, it was an even match. Eight disruptors against seven phase-cannons. The Romulan disruptors had roughly twice the destructive power of Starfleet's phase-cannons, but the phase-cannons had greater accuracy and a higher rate of fire.

The Romulan Commander knew what he had to do to survive: Get in close and finish the fight quickly by overwhelming _Chosin_ with his powerful disruptors. Unfortunately for him, _Chosin_ was faster and more nimble. _And she has the best damn helmsman in the quadrant_, Trinh thought, somewhat immodestly.

"Weapons, target romeo-four with phase-cannons. Continue firing until the target is destroyed. It would be best to finish her as quickly as possible."

"Aye, ma'am."

Trinh grimaced at the Captain's last command. He knew very well--as did everyone on the bridge--why it was necessary to finish the Romulans quickly. Moose was out there somewhere, and she had less than an hour of air.

Unfortunately, _Chosin's_ tactic of long range engagement was not quick. As the minutes ticked away, and as _Chosin_ (under Trinh's delicate touch) danced away from the foxtrot's lumbering advances, the damage they were able to inflict was light. Too light. It was clearly going to take more than an hour to finish the Romulan foxtrot.

The torpedo techs gave the Captain an alternative. Somehow, through a herculean effort Trinh could barely imagine, they had managed in thirty minutes to reload all four of the forward torpedo tubes with one mark 2 torpedo each.

As soon as the techs declared the ordnance ready, T'Pol fired all four at the warbird.

At the same time, she had Trinh bring _Chosin_ in close, giving the Romulan Commander a choice: He could target the torpedoes with his disruptors, and let _Chosin_ get to close range, or he could continue to engage _Chosin_, and let the four torpedoes to do their work.

He shifted fire to the torpedoes, gambling that he would have time to finish _Chosin_ after the torpedoes were destroyed.

His gamble failed. The torpedoes did not survive the barrage of defensive fire from the warbird, but while the warbird engaged the torpedoes, _Chosin's_ phase-cannon fire became more accurate. Devastatingly accurate.

The warbird's shields quickly failed under the blistering storm of pulsed energy. After that, the end came quickly. Every shot hit its target, blasting huge holes in the foxtrot's hull. Great plumes of gas vented into space through breaches in her hull. Plasma trailed from the scorched warp nacelles. Trinh smiled at the desperate twists and turns by which the Romulans attempted to evade destruction. He matched them turn-for-turn.

Until the impulse drives lost power.

Suddenly, _Chosin_ was coasting, and the foxtrot was escaping.

Lieutenant Hoefler reported immediately from the engineering board, "Captain, Impulse drives are--"

T'Pol cut him off, "I know. Helm, use the warp drives to position us at a point four light-seconds in front of the foxtrot along her current heading."

Trinh's mouth dropped open. It had never been done. The timing was too tricky, the warp control settings too imprecise. The Nav Comp didn't even have a module to compute warp settings from three-space vectors; he'd have to fly it by the seat of his pants. It _couldn't_ be done.

"Now, please." T'Pol said calmly.

Trinh gulped, "Aye, Khart-lan." Working quickly, he estimated the settings, uploaded the coordinates and engaged the warp drive.

They dropped out of warp almost instantly, and the collision alarm went off. _A little too close_, Trinh realized, but not dangerously so. He engaged maneuvering thrusters and began accelerating away from the approaching warbird.

"Well done, helm," T'Pol said. "Weapons, engage."

The phase cannons were firing before she finished speaking, and the damaged warbird began breaking apart. Secondary explosions finished her, leaving a wrecked hulk in a field of twisted debris.

Everyone knew what would happen next.

A blinding flash erupted from the wreckage as the self-destruct mechanism activated. When the fireball faded, there was nothing left of the Romulan warbird but dust and vapor.

"Khart-lan, we need to get Moose," Trinh said, turning around to look at her, "there's not much time left."

Captain T'Pol avoided his look, staring at the view screen with unseeing eyes. He had never seen her look so... defeated. "The impulse engines are not functioning," she said, "and warp core temperatures are above critical. We cannot go after her without endangering the whole ship. I... I am sorry."

Trinh slumped back in his chair. _Moose..._

He jerked upright, "We can send the shuttlepod!"

T'Pol looked thoughtful. "I must remind you the shuttlepod is tipped on its side at the back of the launch bay to make room for the six-packs. It will take some time to get it righted."

Trinh felt the excitement of hope, "No, that's not necessary. I'll fly it out!"

T'Pol arched one eyebrow as she regarded him. "You propose flying the shuttlepod out of the launch bay while it is turned sideways and laying on its side?"

"Yes ma'am. I can do it. You know I can."

T'Pol nodded, slowly. "Very well. I will have Chief Boryez and one of her Corpsmen meet you in the launch bay. They will accompany you. I suggest you hurry."

"Aye, Khart-lan," Trinh said, and he rushed from the bridge.

#####

**Interstellar space, Teneebian sector, 25 Feb 2159**

Moose slowly regained consciousness.

_I'm falling!_ was her first thought. _It's dark_, was her second thought. _Oh, shit_, was her third thought. They were all more or less correct.

Several deep breaths later, she had a firm grip on her fear, and had taken stock of her situation. It was clear she was alone and drifting in interstellar space--she could see nothing but stars in every direction. Her comm was out. Completely dead. No transmit or receive capability, which meant the distress transponder was probably also kaput. The same blow that knocked her out must have crushed the comm unit, but her suit was still air-tight, which was good news.

According to her helmet gauges, she had an hour of air left, and four hours of power. Based on that, she estimated she had been unconscious for less than two minutes. Still, in two minutes at half-impulse, _Chosin_ could be millions of kilometers away. _What's the record for aloneness?_ she wondered. _I may have just set it_. She giggled at the thought.

A sequence of bright flashes off to her right blossomed into fireballs, then faded back into darkness. _Torpedoes_.

She stared off in that direction, and saw, or thought she saw, occasional sparks and flashes that might have been phase-cannon or disruptor hits.

Her head hurt.

Another set of torpedo detonations bloomed and faded.

She tried to remember the tactical situation before she was unceremoniously set adrift. Two of the four foxtrots had been destroyed, she remembered, but _Galloway_ was out of six-packs, and _Chosin_ was down to three. The fourth Romulan foxtrot--the bastard that had shot up the escape pods-- still had a full load of torpedoes.

She refused to consider the possibility that _Chosin_ would not be victorious.

_They will be back for me. Within the hour. I won't even miss movie night with Dat._ The thought of Dat brought another smile to her face. He was always so cocky. So arrogant. So proud of his reputation as a bad-ass. A trouble-maker. He had most people fooled, but not her. Underneath that bad-ass facade was a... was a... well, maybe not a sensitive soul, exactly, but certainly someone more caring and considerate than he let on. He just needed the right incentive to let it out. He just needed a good, swift kick from a Moose_._

Damn. Her head wasn't getting any better. And she had no aspirin. And no way to take it even if she had it. _If wishes were horses... there'd be a dead horse floating nearby_. She giggled again.

She closed her eyes. It didn't help.

_I wonder if I have a concussion?_

She spent a couple of minutes trying to see the reflections of her pupils in her helmet visor, without any luck. If they were dilated, she couldn't tell. Hell, it was so dark, they'd be dilated even if she DIDN'T have a concussion. _Sometimes I'm such an idiot._

She drifted in the interstellar void, while her air gauge drifted toward zero. She realized there was no possibility of rescue as long as _Chosin_ and _Galloway_ were engaged with the enemy. _Just how long does it take to kick the butts of two Romulan foxtrots?_

Hopefully less than an hour.

When her air gauge reached the ten minute mark, she decided she was officially entitled to get a little worried.

At seven minutes, she started entertaining the notion that she might not be rescued.

When the gauge hit five minutes, she had to accept she just _might_ die.

At three minutes, she knew she _would_ die.

At two minutes, she saw the most beautiful sight she had ever seen in her life: _Chosin's_ shuttlepod was approaching. The side door was open, and a suited figure stood in the opening with a lifeline coiled in one hand. She wasn't going to die, after all. Not today, anyway. _I wonder what the movie is tonight?_

#####

_**Chosin**_**, Teneebian sector, 25 Feb 2159**

The first thing T'Pol noticed as she approached engineering was the smell; a pungent mixture of burning insulation, scorched electronics, hot machine oil, and human sweat. The second thing she noticed was the heat. It was unpleasantly hot, even to her Vulcan sensibilities. _It must be unbearable for the humans_.

As she entered engineering, the warp core appeared to shimmer as waves of heat emanated from it. The engineering crew gave it wide berth as they wearily went about their repair tasks. Her eyes sought out her mate, and found him peering into a smoking control cabinet. He stood when he sensed her presence and made his unsteady way toward her.

T'Pol was not pleased at her mate's condition. He was sweaty, streaked with oil and grime, and exhausted, bordering on collapse. She firmly suppressed her Vulcan concern for her mate's well-being. Their duty to the ship came first.

"Hey, darling," he said. He gave her eyes a searching look, while he gently probed her mental state. He found her to be in complete control, and some of the tension drained from his body. "We didn't lose anyone," he said. It was a statement, not a question.

"There were six injuries, two severe. Crewman McGuire lost an arm, but Chief Boryez says it can be reattached when we return to Starbase 7. Trinh recovered Moose in the shuttlepod. We lost no one today."

T'Pol paused when she saw Trip smirking. "What?"

"You called her Moose."

"It is how she desires to be addressed," T'Pol said, primly.

"Uh-huh."

T'Pol decided it was easier to change the subject than attempt an explanation, "What is your status?" she asked.

Trip rubbed his eye with the palm of one hand and grimaced. "We'll have impulse drives in a couple of hours. The main propellant line ruptured, but we can patch it up, no problem. Warp drive is down 'till sometime tomorrow. That last burst of speed cracked the dilithium matrix. It's a total loss; We'll replace it after the warp core cools down enough. We also have some shorted warp coils. Everything else is small potatoes."

_Small potatoes_. T'Pol filed the reference away for future study. "Trip, I understand you have canceled the movie tonight."

Trip snorted, "Well, yeah." As justification, he waved an arm at the barely controlled chaos around him.

"I wish you to reconsider."

"You gotta be shi--" Trip stopped abruptly as T'Pol nudged him through the bond. _I gotta work on the cussing,_ Trip thought. _T'Pol doesn't like it._ "You gotta be kidding me," he amended.

"Vulcans do not--" Trip nudged T'Pol through the bond and grinned. She arched one eyebrow, but revised her statement, "I am not kidding.

"Okay. Why?"

"It will not hurt if the repairs take an extra two or three hours, and I believe it would be beneficial for the crew."

Trip sensed there was more. "And?" he prompted.

"And... I overheard Moo-- Crewman Froehner-- talking to Chief Boryez in sickbay after her rescue. It seems Petty Officer Trinh is taking her on a 'date' to the movie. She is apparently looking forward to it."

"I'll be damned," Trip said in a wondering tone. "You're turning into a great big softy, you know that?"

"I am merely looking after the welfare of my crew, as a Captain should."

"I'll bet if you were Captain of a Vulcan ship, you wouldn't have to worry about things like movie nights or relieving stress," he teased.

"The job would certainly be less... complex," T'Pol agreed. "On the other hand..."

Trip gave T'Pol an inquiring look when her voice trailed off into silence.

"On the other hand, " she continued softly, "no Vulcan ship could have done what _Chosin_ did today."

Trip glanced over at his exhausted engineers as they bent, uncomplaining, to their tasks, and his heart swelled with pride. "Indeed."

#####

_**Chosin**_**, Lalande III, 8 Mar 2159**

Trip was already waiting at the docking port when T'Pol made her way down from the bridge. It had been less than an hour since _Chosin_ and _Galloway_ arrived without fanfare at Lalande III. T'Pol was on the bridge coordinating a repair schedule with Starbase 7 when she received the notice.

Admiral Gardner was on a passenger shuttle, on his way to _Chosin_ from the Starbase.

Admiral Gardner, the Starfleet Commandant. He should have been on Earth, coordinating the war effort, not out on the front lines.

"You sure he didn't mention what this was about?" Trip asked, for the second time.

"I am sure, Trip."

They waited as the locks engaged and the indicator lights turned green, then opened the docking port.

Gardner stepped through, and his normally dour expression seemed positively gloomy.

Trip felt a chill of premonition. _Something's happened to Enterprise._

"Admiral." T'Pol greeted, stepping forward.

"Captain T'Pol, Commander Tucker," Gardner replied, with a nod.

"What can we do for you, sir?" Trip asked, uneasily.

Gardner dropped his eyes to a PADD in his hands, "Captain T'Pol, United Earth has received a request from the Andorian government for your extradition."

Trip exploded. "WHAT?"

T'Pol put a calming hand on his arm. "For what purpose?" she asked Gardner.

"You are being charged with crimes related to the loss of the freighter _Ketalan_ and the murder of her crew. The Chancellor himself signed the extradition papers. He is threatening to withdraw all Andorian military support from the Coalition war effort if you are not handed over for trial."

Trip maintained a stunned silence, but T'Pol could tell he was seething inside. She sent calming thoughts across the bond. "Can he do that?" she asked, "_Will_ he do that?"

"As Commander-in-Chief of Andorian forces, he has the authority. As to whether he really would..?" Gardner shrugged.

"I'm sorry Commander," Gardner continued. "Starfleet will fight this tooth and nail. I have no intention of handing one of our own over to that bastard. I've got our best legal minds working on it, as well as the full resources of our embassy on Andoria. We've even asked Vulcan for help, since you are a Vulcan citizen."

"How much time do we have?" T'Pol asked.

"Three days."

They all knew it wouldn't be enough.

**END**

**Note: **This is the last chapter of '**Command**', but it does not complete the story. The story continues in Chapter 1 of '**Convicted**'


End file.
